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THE   WRITINGS   OF 
ALFRED    DE    MUSSET 


COMPLETE  IN  TEN  VOLUMES 


THE 

\PL\ 

WRITINGS 


ALFRED 


NEW  YORK 


EDWIN  C.HILL  COMPANY 


/: 


s    -s 

^o  ^-~  *" 


<&ne  Cfjousanb  Copies;  fjabe  been  printeb  on  Harge 
"Paper.  tEfje  I irtft  (0ne  ?|unbreb  anb  Jf tftp  sets  in 
Hebant  ^tnbing,  €xtra  KHustrateb;  tfje  rematnins 
J^unbreb  anb  Jfiftp  in  ?gucferam. 


10  Copp 


POEMS  OF 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 


TALES   OF   SPAIN    ASD  ITALY  NAMOUNA 

SCENE    IN    AN  IDi  VRNINGS 

MARDOCl  LIPS 

01  \S  DRE 


DONE  -GLISH   BY 

MARIE   AGATHE   CLARKE 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

M.  BIDA   •    HENRI   PILLE 


VOLUME  ONE 


PRINTED  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY   BY 

EDWIN   C.   HILL   COMPANY 
1905 


Namouna. 
To  the  couch  of  her  lover 


POEMS  OF 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 


TALES   OF   SPAIN    AND    ITALY    •    NAMOUNA 

SCENE    IN    AN    ARMCHAIR    •     IDLE    YEARNINGS 

MARDOCHE    •    THE    CUP    AND   THE    LIPS 

OF   WHAT   YOUNG   MAIDENS   DREAM 

DIVERSE    POEMS 


DONE  INTO  ENGLISH  BY 

MARIE   AGATHE   CLARKE 

ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

M.   BIDA   •    HENRI   PILLE 
VOLUME  ONE 


PRINTED  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY  BY 

EDWIN   C.   HILL   COMPANY 
1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
EDWIN  C.  HILL  COMPANY 


EDWIN      PEESS 


pGt 


POEMS  OF 
ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 


TO    THE    READER   OF    THE    TWO 

VOLUMES    OF    VERSE    BY 

THE    AUTHOR 

I  SAY  in  serious  truth 
This  book  is  all  my  youth; 
And  what  herein  is  wrought 
Is  writ  with  scarce  a  thought. 

As  man  is  changing  still, 
Why  change  the  good  or  ill 
That  gave  the  past  its  life? 
Go,  bird,  on  swiftest  wing, 
To  those  thy  message  bring 
Who  still  endure  the  strife. 

Dear  reader,  bear  with  me, 
Nor  judge  too  hastily; 
Blame  not,  nor  yet  commend, 
Until  you've  reached  the  end. 
i 


TO    THE    READER 

My  earliest  verse  was  by  a  child ; 
The  next  betrays  a  youth  as  mild ; 
The  last  can  scarce  in  realms  of  song 
Be  deemed  a  man's  work,  nobly  strong. 


WHEN  thee  I  loved,  I  would  my  life  have  given 
To  make  thee  happy;  but  now,  nevermore 
Canst  thou  awake  that  passion  as  of  heaven 
That  thrilled  me  once,  deep  down  to  my  heart's 

core. 

Thy  snares  are  foolish,  smiles  and  sobs  are  vain 
To  move  me  as  of  old — thy  magic  fled. 
The  deep  deception  that  hath  given  pain, 
Hath  slain  thy  beauty,  and  thy  charms  are  dead. 
Just  as  a  child  within  a  chamber  dim 
Espies  a  suit  of  armor  and  with  fear 
Sinks  back  affrighted,  and  fears  following  him 
Some  spectral  warrior  ever  moving  near; 
But  by  the  curtain's  folds,  at  break  of  day, 
He  sees  the  harmless  phantom,  feels  its  dress, 
And  with  a  laugh  throws  all  his  fears  away, 
And   cries,    "  How    foolish    I,   to    fear   a   tin 

cuirass ! " 


TO   JUNGFRAU 

JUNGFRAU,  the  traveler  who  ascends  thy  peak 
And  stands  in  triumph  on  the  stainless  snows, 
Feels  fierce  exultance  in  his  soul,  that  beats 
Its  wings  of  victory  where  the  sunrise  glows, 
And  like  the  eagle  longs  to  ever  soar 
Above  the  peaks  where  avalanches  roar. 
Jungfrau,  I  know  a  heart  as  proud  as  thine, 
And  clothed  like  thee,  in  robe  without  a  stain, 
More  nigh  to  God  than  thou  art  to  the  sky; 
That,  like  thee,  sings  to  Heaven  her  glad  refrain. 
Be  in  no  wise  amazed,  O  towering  height, 
If  on  the  day  when  first  I  saw  thy  crest, 
I  had  believed  the  goal  was  too  sublime, 
To  conquer  thee  too  perilous  behest. 

1829. 


VENICE 

IN  Venice  the  red, 
Never  a  boat  that's  sped, 
No  fisher  on  the  mere, 
No  lantern  near. 

Seated  alone  on  shore, 
The  Lion  grand  lifts  o'er 
Horizon  without  flaw, 
His  bronzed  paw. 

Around  him,  ranged  in  groups, 
Great  vessels  and  shallops. 
Like  herons  all  adoze 
In  silent  rows, 

On  smoking  waves  reclined; 
And  o'er  the  mist  entwined, 
Their  standards,  hovering 
In  airy  ring. 

The  moon  that  groweth  pale, 
Her  fading  brow  doth  veil, 
A  cloud  all  starry  lined 
Half  hidd'n  behind. 

The  lady  abbess,  so, 

Of  Sainte  Croix  folds  low 

5 


VENICE 

Her  cape  of  vast  contour 
Her  surplice  o'er. 

Palace  of  olden  time, 
And  porticoes  sublime, 
And  the  broad  stairways  white 
Of  ancient  knight, 

And  streets,  and  bridge  of  stone, 
And  statues  sad  and  lone, 
And  gulf  that  onward  glides 
In  rippling  tides, 

The  guards  in  midnight  hour 
With  halberds  on  the  tower, 
And  arsenal  turrets  steep, 
Their  watches  keep. 

Ah,  more  than  one  sweet  maid 
'Neath  light  of  moon,  hath  stayed, 
Some  boyish  flow'ret  dear, 
With  listening  ear. 

More  than  one  hurrying  lass, 
Ere  leaving,  at  her  glass 
The  mask  of  jet  doth  tie, 
For  the  ball's  nigh. 

On  couch  of  balmy  scent, 
La  Vanina,  outspent, 
Still  fast  her  lover  keeps, 
And  sweetly  sleeps, 


And  Narcissa,  the  bold, 
In  her  gondola's  hold, 
Forgets  herself  till  day, 
Feasting  away. 

And  who,  o'er  Italy, 

Breeds  not  frivolity? 

Who  keeps  not  for  love's  ways 

His  fairest  days? 

Leave  antique  horologe, 
On  palace  of  old  doge, 
Of  weary  nights  to  count 
The  dull  amount. 

Better  to  count,  ma  belle, 
On  thy  lips  that  rebel, 
So  many  kisses  given  .  .  . 
Or  forgiven. 

Better  thy  charms  repeat, 
Better,  the  tear-drops  sweet, 
That  love's  voluptuous  sighs 
Have  cost  our  eyes. 

1828. 


TO   ULRIC    GUTTINGER 

ULBIC,  no  eye  hath  measured  the  abyss 
Of  the  deep  ocean  whose  majestic  waves, 

Foaming,  reflecting  with  an  angry  hiss 
Where  dazzling  sunlight  the  vast  billow  laves. 

Likewise,  no  eye  hath  visited  the  deeps 
Of  thy  unbounded  soul.  Ulric,  I  swear 

Thou  bearest  in  thy  breast  a  soul  that  leaps 
From  heaven   to  hell,    from  hope   to   grim 
despair. 

But  suffer  me  to  gaze  compassionate, 
As  bends  a  child  above  the  river  deep, 

On  one  so  deeply  wounded,  or  relate 
Thy  ravishment  by  woman's  kisses  sweet. 

JULY,  1829. 


SONNET 

How  I  enjoy  the  winter's  chill!    The  mire 

Under  the  foot,  refuses  to  give  way ; 

When  dreams  the  crow  of  fields  of  new-mown 

hay, 
And  glows  the  old  chateau  with  roaring  fire. 

The  season  of  the  town  returns  again; 
Once  more  I  greet  the  Louvre  and  its  dome; 
All  Paris  and  her  smoke,  with  glad  refrain, 
Plunge  in  the  social  whirl,  and  be  at  home. 

I  love  this  dull  gray  sky,  the  matchless  Seine 
Gemmed   with   a   thousand   lights;    Paris,   my 

queen ! 
Beloved  of  gods,  sits  happy  and  serene. 

Oft  in  thy  tender  looks  I  steep  my  soul; 
Thy  citizen,  I  write  upon  thy  roll 
My  name  on  thy  immortal  scroll. 

AUGUST,  1829. 


BALLAD    TO   THE   MOON. 

'Twas  in  the  darkling  night, 
Above  the  steeple  far 

The  moon,  so  bright, 
Hung  like  a  glowing  star. 

Oh,  moon !  what  somber  elf     - 
Doth  move,  on  end  of  string, 

Thyself 
In  planetary  swing? 

Art  thou  of  heaven  the  eye? 
Thou  seest  in  knavish  task 

The  cherubs  fly 
Around  thy  whitish  mask? 

Naught  art  thou  but  a  ball? 
Or  lizard  fat,  that  begs 

To  crawl 
Without  his  arms  or  legs? 

A  horologe  that  rolls 

A  timepiece  whose  dread  knell 

That  doles 
The  hour  to  souls  of  hell? 

10 


BALLAD    TO    THE    MOON         11 

Upon  thy  brow  so  cold, 
Did  they,  this  night,  reply 

How  old 
Is  their  eternity? 

What  worm  gnaws  thee  away 
When  thy  diminished  face 

Doth  day  by  day 
Make  increasing  grimace? 

Who  clipped  a  piece  from  thee 
But  lately?    Or  didst  thou 

Angrily 
Dash  on  a  tree  thy  brow? 

Pale  and  drawn  at  morn, 
Right  on  my  window-pane 

Thy  horn 
Stretched  its  pale  curve  of  flame. 

Away,  moon  almost  dead, 

For  Phoebus  the  gold  illumined, 

Blood  red, 
Is  in  the  sea  intombed. 

Bereft  of  former  grace 

And  now,  with  wrinkles  dressed, 

Thy  face 
Of  beauty  dispossessed. 


12         BALLAD    TO    THE    MOON 

Let's  hear  Diana  sing, 
Whose  white  breasts  know  no  fear, 

Chasing 
Some  early  morning  deer ! 

Let's  see,  beneath  the  tree 

With  boughs  bedight  with  fruits, 

Diana,  flee 
With  stag-hounds,  glorious  brutes! 

Suspicious,  the  black  doe 
Perched  on  a  hanging  crag, 

Hears  the  grim  foe 
The  hounds  cry  for  her  stag. 

And  following  their  game 
Wherever  it  may  stray, 
To  capture  same, 
The  dogs  have  gone  away. 

Phoebus,  Apollo's  twin, 
Seen  in  the  breeze  at  eve, 

Alarmed  for  him 
At  night,  sinks  in  the  wave ! 

Phoebus,  who  at  night's  close 
Is  sung  by  shepherd's  lips, 

Has  pose 
Of  bird  that  fluttering  sips. 


BALLAD    TO    THE    MOON         13 

Moon,  in  our  memory, 
With  thy  sublime  amour 

Fond  story 
Will  deck  thee  evermore. 

And  evermore  made  young, 
A  wanderer  shalt  thou  be 

Still  sung, 
Both  full,  and  wasted,  thee. 

The  shepherd  thee  shall  woo, 
Lonely,  while  at  thy  face, 
So  white  and  true, 
His  dog  howls  in  disgrace. 

The  pilot  thee  shall  woo 
When  far  afloat  at  sea, 
The  surges  blue 
Beneath  the  light  of  thee. 

A  little  maid,  in  haste, 
Passing  the  hedges  green 

Has  raced, 
Humming  her  little  tune. 

Like  bear  held  with  a  chain 
Ever,  beneath  thy  rays 

The  main, 
The  swelling  ocean,  raves. 


14         BALLAD    TO    THE    MOON 

And  though  it  blow  or  snow, 
Each  evening,  all  alone, 

I  sit  below 
Here  on  a  mossy  stone, 

To  see  at  darkling  night 
Above  the  steeple  far 

The  moon  so  bright 
Hung  like  a  glowing  star. 

Haply,  when  steals  away 
Some  husband  recreant, 

Astray, 
Thou  smilest  like  a  saint. 

Although  lamenting  keen 
To  happy  groom,  while  she, 

His  queen, 
Gives  up  her  nest's  soft  key. 

His  foot  in  slipper  clad, 

Then  promptly  hies  the  spouse, 

Right  glad 
The  candle  flame  to  douse. 

By  hymen  all  deflowered, 

The  bride  now  shakes  with  dread 

Tho'  embowered 
She  trembles  in  her  bed. 


BALLAD    TO    THE    MOON         15 

But  monsieur,  without  shame, 
Repeats  his  fond  embrace. 

Madame 
To  cry  begins  apace. 

"  Then,"  said  the  spouse,  "  my  work 
Is  not  to  blame  to-night. 

I'm  no  erotic  Turk; 
You  hold  yourself  not  right." 

And  briskly  doth  he  haste 
His  fervent  hopes  to  win, 

Like  the  unchaste 
Committing  of  a  sin. 

Still,  in  the  darkling  night, 
The  moon  beholds,  so  still, 

The  sight 
Where  love  enjoys  its  fill. 

1829. 


HAPPY    is    he,    madame,    who    cherishes    the 

thought, 

Let  it  of  pleasure  be,  or  dolor,  or  of  love, 
That  most  resembles  thine  with  sympathy  un- 

bought, 

And  thus,  as  soul  to  soul,  a  happy  comrade 
prove. 

I  dreamt  a  song  one  night,  and  straightway  seek- 
ing rest, 
Waited,  as  pilgrim  might,  on  some  enchanted 

shore, 

Then  rose  thy  voice  so  sweet  in  music  that  pos- 
sessed 

My  words  in  sweeter  tones  than  I  had  heard 
before. 

What   matters    fortune's    fret?      I    never   can 

forget 

That  from  thy  ruby  lips  my  song  hath  flown 
away. 

16 


TO    MADAME    MENESSIER        17 

Just  as  a  joyous  bird  from  dawn  to  sweet  sunset 
Sings  in  its  dulcet  tones  the  long  sweet  sum- 
mer day, 
Your  lips  have  sung  my  song,  in  tones  almost 

divine, 
Thy  music  will   for  aye  my  poorer  words 

outshine. 
NOVEMBER,  1831. 


TO  PEPA 

PEPA,  when  the  night  is  come, 
When  your  mother  says  adieu, 

Half  undressed  within  your  room 
When  you  kneel  on  the  prie-dieu; 

In  that  hour  the  soul  distressed 
Yields  to  words  of  pious  book, 

Just  before  you  take  your  rest, 
Underneath  your  bed  you  look. 

When  light  slumber  through  the  home 

Falls  on  all,  a  benison, 
O  Pepita,  charming,  come, 

Tell  me  what  you're  thinking  on. 

Dreaming  sweet  of  heroine, 

In  some  saddening  love  romance? 

Or  of  hope  you  would  divine 
Mocking  real  things  perchance. 

Mountains  laboring  that  bring 

Mice  alone  in  lion's  lair, 
Lovers  in  the  land  of  spring, 

Bonbons,  or  a  husband  fair? 

18 


TO    PEPA  19 

Or  of  tender  tete-a-tete, 

Or  of  hearts  like  yours  untaught; 
Gowns,  it  may  be — dancing  fete? 

Perhaps  of  me ;  perhaps  of  naught. 

1831. 


THE    ANDALUSIAN 

IN  Barcelona,  have  you  seen 
My  stately  Andalusian  queen? 
Pale  in  her  lovely  Spanish  dress, 
My  mistress  she,  my  lioness ! 
Of  Amaegui,  the  marchioness. 

I've  seen  the  tear-drop  in  her  eye, 
When  singing  songs  that  made  her  cry. 
When  with  the  breeze  her  curtain  shook, 
Right  often  sentinel  I've  played, 
Right  often  have  I  drawn  the  blade. 

Her  great  dark  eyes  where  glory  swims, 
Her  body  lithe,  her  perfect  limbs ; 
She's  mine,  mine  only  in  the  world. 
Her  hair,  in  which  her  head  is  furled, 
In  all  these  charms  my  soul  is  hurled. 

Mine  are  her  breasts  that  heave  and  fall, 
When  sleeps  she  near  the  golden  wall; 
Her  Spanish  skirt  about  her  hip, 
Her  snowy  arm,  her  honeyed  lip, 
Her  dainty  feet  that  sweetly  trip ! 

True,  Lord!  how  that  her  eye  doth  snap, 
When  rising  from  her  morning  nap, 
20 


THE    ANDALUSIAN  21 

Would  you  but  her  mantilla  feel, 
By  every  saint  that's  in  Castile, 
Beneath  her  blow  your  bones  would  reel. 

When  fierce  disorder's  in  the  air, 

Then  down  she  falls,  her  breasts  all  bare, 

So  passionate,  and  shining  white ; 

Then  raging  kisses  fondly  bite. 

Ah  me,  how  mad  in  her  delight! 

When  blithely  singing  in  the  morn, 
She  cares  not  if  her  dress  be  torn 
When  wrestling  in  her  silken  pride, 
She  makes  against  her  curving  side, 
Her  corset's  seam  rip  open  wide! 

She  waits  for  me  each  summer  eve ; 
She  loves  me,  you  may  well  believe. 
To-night,  again,  new  ambuscades. 
To-night,  again,  new  serenades, 
To  drive  to  Hades  the  alcades! 


SONG 

I  SAID  unto  my  heart:  To  give  me  peace, 
Is  but  to  love  one  mistress  to  distress. 

For  seest  thou  not  that  changing  without  cease, 
Loses  in  sighs  the  hours  of  happiness? 

My  heart  replied:  To  make  thy  joy  increase, 
'Tis  not  enough  one  mistress  thy  repast; 

Dost  thou  not  see  that  changing  without  cease 
Renders  more  sweet  the  pleasures  of  the  past? 

Oh,  wayward  heart,  I  said,  a  sure  decrease 
Of  pleasure  follows  idle  restlessness. 

Dost  thou  not  see  that  changing  without  cease 
At  every  step  one  meets  with  more  distress? 

My  heart  replied :  'Tis  to  assure  surcease 
Of  sorrow,  to  make  pleasure  doubly  last. 

Dost  thou  not  see  that  changing  without  cease 
Will  make  more  sweet  the  sorrows  of  the  past? 

1831. 


22 


TO    LAURA 

IF  thou  didst  love  me  not,  tell  me,  demented  girl,. 
What  wert  thou  whispering  of  during  those 

fatal  hours? 

Didst  urge  along  thy  tongue,  shaking  thy  wrath- 
ful curl, 

Ah,  what  could  mean  those  tears,  that  fell  in 
copious  showers? 

Ah,  if  desire  alone  those  soft  sighs  drew  from 

thee, 
If  it  had  been  but  this,  which,  in  that  moment 

sad, 

Did  set  my  lips  on  fire,  didst  fan  so  lovingly 
The  ardent  flame  of  love  that  made  our  souls 
so  glad ; 

Spirit  and  sense  were  there,  kisses  and  blinding 

tears, 
Holding    each    other's    hand,    my    lips    had 

touched  thy  heart. 

Yes,  in  that  sacred  hour  that  banished  every  fear, 
Desire  profaned  thy  love,  from  thee  Love 
stood  apart. 

23 


24  TO    LAURA 

Ah,  Laurette !  ah,  Laurette !  thou  idol  of  my  life, 

If  but  the  demon  lust  has  made  thy  body  hot, 

Lacking  the  spirit's  love,  thou  art  no  faithful 

wife. 

Why  hast  thou  summoned  lust,  if  thou  didst 
love  me  not? 

1832. 


TO    MY    FRIEND    ALFRED    T. 

SOLE  in  a  thousand,  Alfred,  in  my  days  of  woe, 
Loyal  to  me  you  stood  when  so  many  dis- 
appeared ; 

Happiness  was  to  me  only  a  passing  show, 
But  in  adversity  the  real  friend  appeared. 

So  likewise  the  gay  flowers,  the  fertile  banks 

upon, 
Spread  out  beneath  the  sun  their  common 

treasure  store, 

But  in  the  gloomy  pit  beneath  some  barren  stone, 
Seeking  a  vein  of  gold,  the  miner  doth  explore. 

'Tis  likewise  that  the  seas,  calm  and  of  tempest 

free, 

Can  lull  the  voyager  upon  a  sleeping  main. 
But  'tis  the  northern  wind,  the  hurricane-tossed 

sea, 

Which    casts    upon    the    shore    a   pearl    for 
fishermen.  « 

Now,  God  preserve  me!    Whither?    Eh,  what 

shall  it  be? 
Whatever  be  my  fate,  I  say,  as  Byron  said: 

26 


26    TO   MY   FRIEND    ALFRED    T. 

'  The  ocean  may  complain,  it  has  to  carry  me. 
If  down  my  vessel  goes,  but  one  more  soul  is 
dead." 

But,  brother,  at  the  least,   'twas  given  me  to 

survive 
My  mourning,  and  to  seal  our  loyal  friendship 

true; 
To-morrow  though  I  die,  to-morrow  though  I 

live, 
So  long  as  beats  my  heart,  I'll  give  the  half 

to  you. 
MAY,  1832. 


TO    MY    FRIEND  B. 

You  used  to  strike  your  brow  in  reading  Lamar- 

tine, 

And  like  a  gambler,  Edouard,  that  soul  of  thine 
Shivered  and  burned  within — the  lightning  flash 

divine, 

Within  your  breast, 
Far  in  the  lonesome  night  brought  deep  unrest. 

Ah,  burn,  O  splendid  heart !  'tis  there  that  genius 
lies; 

'Tis  there  that  pity  dwells,  there  suffering  re- 
plies ; 

'Tis  there  is  that  proud  rock  that  fronts  the 
stormy  skies 

Whence  waves  of  harmony, 

When  Moses  draweth  near,  shall  rush  away. 

I  know  that  in  your  soul  deep  passion  always 

dwells, 

And  the  volcanic  surge  of  feeling  swift  rebels 
Against  dull  duties  that  to  soaring  flight  impels. 

You  feel  your  wings, 
Your  soul  is  but  a  bird  that  flying  sings. 

27 


28  TO    MY    FRIEND    B. 

Then  wearied  you  will  learn  how  dear  is  idleness ; 
Longing  for  home  again  will  bring  you  deep 

distress ; 
Edouard,  while  your  heart  is  free  of  care's  caress, 

Replete  with  youth, 
Crave  not  life's  cares;  they'll  come  too  soon  in 

sooth. 

1832. 


TO   JULIA. 

I'M  asked  why  in  the  light  of  day 

I  go  star-gazing  by  the  way; 

A  heedless  youth,  the  people  say; 

Youth  is  passed  in  idleness, 

And  in  the  years  of  love's  duress 

Were  wakeful  nights  of  deep  distress. 

Ah,  Julia,  what  a  happy  tale ! 

The  mad  nights  which  have  made  thee  pale, 

Tell  me  that  love  can  never  fail. 

Thy  sweet  breath,  and  the  ruby  mouth 

For  which  my  lips  have  endless  drouth, 

Thy  dark  eyes  of  the  burning  south. 

Ah,  Julia,  hast  thou  wine  of  Spain, 
That  your  soul  should  face  in  twain? 
Drinking,  we  shall  be  one  again. 
Thus  being  as  'twere  made  whole, 
Let  us  invent  some  foolish  role 
To  lose  ourselves  both  flesh  and  soul. 

'Tis  said  my  wild  oats  are  unspent, 
My  limbs  are  still  impenitent 
Even  if  all  my  force  is  spent. 
No  more  am  I  a  worthless  nag, 
For  shipment  to  some  barren  crag, 
To  die  beneath  a  foreign  flag. 

29 


30  TO    JULIA 

Ah,  Julia,  thou  shouldst  die  of  shock 
To  see  the  mob  thy  lover  mock, 
Chained  like  Prometheus  on  his  rock. 
Since  'tis  by  thee  that  I  expire, 
Heap  up  the  flame  of  love's  fierce  fire, 
That  I  may  mount  my  funeral  pyre. 
MARCH,  1832. 


MADAME    LA   MARQUISE 

You  know  that  I  a  mistress  keep, 
A  Spanish  girl  with  roguish  smile ; 

When  on  my  heart,  in  slumber  deep, 
She  sleeps,  I  do  not  think  of  guile. 

And  when  her  arm  encircles  me, 

Like  graceful  neck  of  a  snowy  swan, 

I  sink  in  sleep  so  happily, 

And  dream  of  love  from  dark  till  dawn. 

Gay  cherubs,  watch  where  she  doth  lie ! 

Protect  our  peaceful  birdlings ; 
Gild  her  sweet  sleep,  till  night  doth  die, 

With  light  of  your  reflected  wings ! 

All  things  invite  us  to  forget 

All  care  and  sorrow,  pain  and  fright, 

Our  pleasures,  to  avoid  life's  fret, 
Our  curtains,  to  forget  daylight. 

Put  thy  breath  in  my  mouth,  my  pride, 
That  thy  sweet  soul  may  enter  there. 

Oh,  let  us  thus  remain,  my  bride, 
Until  we  breathe  our  final  prayer ! 

31 


32         MADAME    LA  MARQUISE 

Let  us  remain!    Perhaps  the  star* 

That  flames  in  heaven,  which  wise  men  fear, 

May  burn  the  world  while  flying  far, 
Yet  leave  us  unmolested  here. 

Oh,  come  into  my  wounded  soul, 

Still  bleeding  from  a  ghastly  smart ! 

Come,  of  thy  sweetness  give  me  dole, 
Ever  to  love  and  never  part. 

Oh,  could  you  know  how  much  I've  wept, 
How  much  my  heart  has  been  consumed, 

How  many  a  vigil  I  have  kept 
To  keep  the  lamp  of  love  relumed ! 

Then  give  to  me  a  fond  embrace, 
My  beauteous  mistress,  passing  fair ! 

Assuage  my  soul  with  smiling  face, 
And  bind  my  grief  with  raven  hair. 

Darling,  the  past  is  all  forgiven; 

Now  let  us  sleep,  one  heart,  one  soul; 
To  hold  you  in  my  arms  is  heaven! 

This  lovely  couch  is  love's  own  goal! 

Know,  Madame  la  Marquise,  the  king 
Hath  ordered  it  that  you  be  mine. 

Fear  not  but  I'll  provide  the  ring 
That  by  to-morrow  will  be  thine. 

*  At  that  time  (1832)  there  was  much  talk  about  a  comet. 


MADAME    LA  MARQUISE          33 

Then  on  my  heart  in  slumber  sweet 
I'll  cradle  you  till  morning  fair; 

My  Andalusian,  as  'tis  meet, 
Will  with  her  eye  my  soul  ensnare. 

1829. 


TO   JUANA 

O  Heaven!  once  more  I  see  madame, 
Of  all  the  loved  ones  of  my  soul 

The  first,  yea,  the  most  tender  flame; 
A  story  of  the  soul's  control. 

How  memory  of  it  can  last — 

'Twas,  I  believe,  the  summer  past. 

Ah,  when  I  think  of  it,  Marquise, 
The  hours  we  spent  in  folly's  court, 

Yea,  how  we  quaffed  them  to  the  lees, 
My  one-time  mistress,  life  is  short. 

This  winter,  by  the  leafless  bough, 

Twenty  I'll  be,  and  eighteen  thou. 

Ah,  well!  my  love,  let  truth  express, 
If  paled  a  trifle,  thy  sweet  rose 

Still  blooms  afresh  in  loveliness. 

Ah  me,  where  Spanish  beaut}5-  grows, 

Were  none  so  pretty,  nor  so  mad, 

Nor  in  the  past  were  e'er  so  glad. 

Those  nights  of  ours,  our  fallings  out; 

Thou  gavest  me,  I  do  recall, 
Thy  golden  necklace  in  a  pout, 

To  make  thy  peace  at  duty's  call. 

34 


TO    JUANA  35 

From  sleep  I'd  waken,  O  my  dove, 
To  kiss  thy  talisman  of  love! 

And  lo,  thy  grim  duenna  damned! 

How  on  a  day  she  lost  her  breath 
With  hell  and  fury,  as  she  scanned 

When  you  were  like  to  bring  to  death 
Thy  jealous  spouse,  so  corpulent, 
And  thy  young  lover  with  content ! 

Ah,  have  a  care  of  it,  Marquise! 

Such  love  as  that,  say  what  you  will, 
Shall  one  day  once  again  displease 

Those  jailers  that  surround  thee  still. 
If  thou  hast  once  a  heart  enclosed, 
For  others'  love  are  indisposed. 

But  why  recall  that  voyage  sweet? 

How  struggle  with  a  stormy  sea 
Whose  tide  refuses  to  repeat 

That  perfumed  cruise  of  thee  and  me? 
Adieu,  my  life — adieu,  madame! 
So  goes  the  world  since  love  grew  tame. 

'Tis  time  that  carries  on  his  wing 
The  hours  of  idleness  and  yoke; 

The  swallow  and  the  days  of  spring 
All  vanish  in  the  air  like  smoke. 

Ah,  how  I  loved  thee  so  before, 

And  thou  remembering  it  no  more ! 

1831. 


OCTAVE 

t 

A  FRAGMENT 

NEITHER  the  dreaming  monk,  nor  charlatan, 
Surmised  the  reason  Mariette  was  wan; 
So  stricken  to  the  heart,  this  guilty  one 
Is  ill  at  ease.    She  loves,  and  fate  hath  won. 
Oh,  see  beneath  the  hands  of  lustful  man 
How  perishes  the  youthful  courtesan! 
But  now  the  day  of  reckoning  has  come, 
And  Mariette  with  misery  is  dumb. 
I  have  no  pity  for  the  strange  complaint 
That  stretches  her  beneath  the  trees,  so  faint, 
Where  in  the  densest  shade,  beside  cool  stones, 
She  makes  complaint  with  ever  piteous  moans. 
But  yesterday,  in  this  sequestered  glade, 
How  pale  her  lovers  grew  in  deadly  shade; 
For  here  she  daily  plied  a  dreadful  trade, 
On  youth  and  beauty  planned  an  ambuscade. 
This  Messalina,  with  devouring  charms, 
Made  young  men  aged  in  her  greedy  arms ; 
Nor  strange  that  in  so  beautiful  a  spot 
They  found  grim  death  in  her  embraces  hot; 
While  she  herself  was  fired  with  passion  mad 
To  suck  their  blood,  gain  all  the  gold  they  had. 

36 


OCTAVE  37 

But  now  the  past  is  gone,  my  Mariette ; 
Now  art  thou  left  in  silence  and  regret. 
Thy  lovers  have  abandoned  thee,  grown  old; 
Thy  passions  fierce  have  scarified  thy  soul; 
Thy  youth  is  dead  in  thee,  but  love  burns  yet 
For  one  who  will  not  mount  thy  parapet. 

Now  henceforth  haunt  the  crowded  public  square ; 
Go,  pull  their  cloaks,  thy  lovers  everywhere; 
They  who  have  built  a  palace  proud  for  thee, 
They'll  send  their  men  to  thee  in  mockery. 
To  cure  thy  plaint,  the  doctor  draws  away; 
He  heaves  a  sigh  while  pocketing  his  pay. 
The  dullard  monk,  judicially  intent, 
Denounces  guilt,  consoles  the  innocent; 
When  to  confession  a  fair  lady  comes, 
Is  puzzled  to  pass  sentence,  twirls  his  thumbs, 
But  to  be  sure  of  giving  rest,  or  ruth, 
With  mouth  all  quivering,  he  quotes  her  both. 

Laughing  at  love,  scorner  of  all  that's  good, 
Creature  superb,  a  huntress  mad  for  blood, 
Feeding  on  flesh,  behold,  the  avenging  gods 
Will  cast  thee  forth  as  food  unto  the  dogs! 

Under  the  quiet  shade  of  leafy  wood, 

Sad  with  a  rankling  heart  and  soul  subdued, 

Like  Magdalene  she  would  for  sin  atone; 

Heaving  with  burning  sobs,  she  sits  alone. 

A  prime  authority  in  women's  wiles 

Has  said  she's  tricking  you  whene'er  she  smiles. 


38  OCTAVE 

Suppose  she  has  been  weeping  through  the  night, 
Her  eye  maybe  is  filled  with  joy  and  light, 
And  lips  with  laughter  ripe,  ,and  spoken  word, 
But  hide  a  heart  sore  smitten  by  the  sword. 
How  oft  the  player  bears  an  anguished  heart, 
When  painted  is  the  mask  with  color  smart! 
How  comes  it,  when  the  cheek  is  blushing  red, 
The  mask  itself  hides  tears  of  woe  instead? 
I  know  that  never  justice  in  its  train 
Gives  pleasure  fit  for  gods,  without  some  pain. 
If  granted  me  to  name  what  suffering 
I'd  long  to  have  condemned  the  vilest  thing, 
'Tis  thou,  grim  torture  of  a  heart  ignored, 
Fell  poison  to  consume  a  soul  abhorred. 
Who  knows  the  solitary,  grim  despair, 
That  one  must  feel  love's  contumely  to  share? 
Ah,  what  a  sea  of  anguish  fills  the  soul 
Where  death  in  life  prevails  in  soul,  or  poll. 
Ah,  foolish  one!  what  though  thy  love  be  hot, 
When  scorned  by  one,  by  all  art  thou  forgot, 
Yet  it  survives  in  all,  pride's  savage  greed. 
The  pride  which  scorns  all  eyes,  though  its  heart 

bleed, 

Holds  back,  even  with  the  knife  within  its  side, 
With  its  despairing  hands,  its  mantle's  pride. 

Over  the  waves  that  lap  Venetian  walls, 
Octave  hath  sped,  mingling  in  courtly  balls, 
A  puny  youth  is  he,  and  slight  of  limb ; 
No  person  hitherto  took  note  of  him. 


OCTAVE  39 

One  day  he  sat  in  gondola  propelled, 
And  Mariette  this  favored  youth  beheld. 
Then  in  her  soul  there  leaped  a  purer  flame 
Than  what  before  she  called  by  love's  sweet 

name. 

Her  sullied  soul  was  filled  with  purest  joy 
That  one  day  Heaven  might  send  her  this  sweet 

boy. 

One  night  an  ancient  dame  met  sweet  Octave: 
"Alas!  "  said  she,  "  my  mistress  you  can  save: 
She  dies  for  love  of  you — oh,  hear  her  call — 
Fain  would  she  speak  to  you  this  time  of  all!  " 
But  Octave  at  these  words  showed  her  his  face, 
Where  on  his  brow  joy  rioted  apace: 
"  Dying,  is  Mariette?    Certain  it  is  she  dies?  " 
"  She  can  not  live  an  hour,"  the  shrew  replies. 
"Well,  then,"  was  his  reply,   "I'll  send  this 

note," 
And  with  his  dagger's  point  these  words  he 

wrote : 

"  No  man,  but  woman,  I ;  accursed  Mariette, 
Dying  for  me — 'tis  fair  thy  sun  should  set; 
At  last  avenged,  I  was  the  fiancee 
Of  one  Balbi,  who  drowned  himself  for  thee." 

1831. 


A   MORNING    SERENADE 

AWAKE,  awake,  my  beauteous  one, 

My  Isabel,  and  greet  the  sun! 

Thy  steed  beneath  the  balcony 

Is  neighing  to  the  passers-by ; 

My  huntsmen  in  their  sleeves  of  green 

With  hooded  falcons  may  be  seen. 

Horsemen  and  pages  wait  for  thee, 
To  bear  thee  gallant  company 
In  lace  or  doublet,  well  arrayed 
With  velvet  caps  and  plumes  displayed, 
Leading  the  horses  to  and  fro, 
Cross-bows  in  hand — a  splendid  show. 

The  greyhounds  leap  upon  the  grass, 

Anxious  to  try  the  deep  morass; 

The  strong-limbed  dogs  are  yelping  loud- 

The  bright  array  will  make  you  proud. 

Oh,  come,  my  loving  one,  arise! 

Oh,  greet  the  stirrup,  and  mine  eyes! 

Ah,  loveliest,  beneath  the  silk, 
Thy  lovely  breast,  as  white  as  milk, 
Was  on  thy  bed  but  half  revealed; 
And  all  the  rest  has  been  concealed 

40 


A   MORNING    SERENADE         41 

Upon  the  downy  couch  of  thine 
Through  the  long  night,  sweet  lady  mine. 

I  love  to  see  thy  hand's  caress 
Combing  thy  beauteous  raven  tress; 
Thy  glorious  hair,  in  woven  mass, 
The  dreams  of  lovers  doth  surpass, 
Coiled  in  a  ball  in  morning  bright, 
And  loose  in  ample  folds  at  night. 

Oh,  come,  my  dainty  lady,  come! 
For  lack  of  thee  the  day  is  dumb. 
Thy  steed  doth  paw  impatiently ; 
Thy  jester,  striving  to  be  gay, 
Gives  balance  to  his  parasol 
T'  express  the  patience  in  his  soul. 

Put  on  thy  gaily  colored  dress, 
The  fittest  one  for  love's  caress ; 
Mount  thy  good  steed,  and  we  shall  flee 
Across  the  plain  delightedly. 
Where'er  we  travel,  ride,  or  roam, 
There  love  will  make  the  scene  our  home. 


MADRID 

MADRID,  thou  glory  of  old  Spain, 

The  scene  of  many  a  love  campaign, 

Thousands  of  souls  are  on  the  rack, 

Smitten  by  eyes  of  blue  and  black. 

City  of  lordly  promenades, 

White  city  of  love's  serenades! 

Madrid,  when  to  the  Sunday  fight 

The  bulls  go  snorting  in  affright, 

White  hands  applaud  heroic  parts, 

And  scarfs  are  fluttering  like  their  hearts. 

Thy  nights  hide  many  stars  above, 

As  long  veils  hide  the  eyes  we  love. 

Madrid,  forgive  if  I  make  game 
Of  more  than  one  wasp-waisted  dame, 
Brunette  or  blonde,  with  smallest  feet, 
Who  gaily  walks  thy  stately  streets. 
To  make  amends,  I  do  adore 
A  beauty  I  have  known  before. 

I  know  one  whose  duenna  kind 
Sometimes  is  amiably  blind. 
The  door's  unbarred  for  me  alone — 
Ah,  how  I  bless  the  ancient  crone! 
No  other  gallant  dare  come  near 
The  boudoir  of  my  lady  fair. 

42 


MADRID  43 

My  Andalusian  princess, 
My  loving  one,  whom  I  possess; 
My  beauteous  widow  with  the  veil, 
With  whom  love  only  can  prevail. 
Her  skin  is  of  a  creamy  hue, 
Gay  as  a  bird,  and  ever  true. 

When  on  my  idolizing  lips 

She  lingers,  and  their  honey  sips, 

How  beautiful  in  her  lithe  grace, 

How  radiant  her  perfect  face! 

She  glides  with  grace  between  my  arms 

A  serpent  white  of  endless  charms! 

Now,  if  perchance  with  curious  quest, 
You  ask  how  comes  such  proud  conquest, 
'Twas  due  to  my  fine  steed,  so  fleet, 
My  praise  of  her  mantilla  sweet, 
Vanilla  sweetmeats,  and  duress 
Of  her  soft  hand  with  love's  caress. 


SUZON 

Happy  is  he  whose  heart  asks  but  a  heart,  and  who  desires 
neither  an  English  park,  nor  a  series  of  operas,  nor  music  by 
Mozart,  nor  paintings  by  Raphael,  nor  an  eclipse  of  the  moon, 
nor  even  moonlight,  nor  scenes  from  novels,  nor  their  fulfill- 
ment.— JEAN  PAUL. 

THIS  story  that  I  write  is  food  for  those 
Who  break  the  bottle  after  the  first  glass — 
Those  madmen  who  would  break  a  dainty  pipe 
In  wanton  fury  when  but  smoking  it. 

Two  Abbes  who  were  dining  with  the  Pope, 
And  thereby  grew  somewhat  intoxicate, 
After  dessert  had  sought  a"  safe  retreat 
In  the  Pope's  garden  for  a  quiet  talk. 
Said  Cassius,  "  Dear  Fortunio,  I  fear 
My  mistress  is  a  fool — Marquise  de  B. 
Will  not  in  any  wise  consort  with  me. 
I  know  not  what  to  do  with  her;  indeed, 
Her  prudery  would  bring  you  to  the  grave." 
'  The  fault  is  yours,"  replied  Fortunio ; 
"  If  you  get  nothing  from  her,  that  is  strange." 
Said  Cassius,  "  I  have  told  you  but  the  truth; 
For  heating  marble  I  have  not  the  art." 

44 


SUZON  45 

Thereupon  the  friends  began  to  whisper  low, 
Walked  with  a  quick  step  beyond  the  garden 

wall; 

Fortunio  saw  his  friend  unto  his  door, 
And  looking  here  and  there,  whispered  and  said 

good-by. 

Cassius  next  morning  left  his  domicile 
With  trembling  step,  a  vial  in  his  hand, 
And  the  day  following  his  mistress  died. 

Two  years  went  by,  yet  the  conspiring .  priests 
Were  silent  when  they  met  in  court  or  street. 
Cassius  was  rarely  seen;  he  hardly  laughed, 
Drank  less,  was  growing  thin.    Fortunio, 
Well  powdered,   watchful,   well  supplied  with 

gold, 

In  look  grew  impudent;  had  shapely  form, 
Possessing  every  charm  that  women  love, 
Was  always  near  the  ladies  night  and  morn, 
Rosy  and  charming,  and  disposed  to  air 
His  graceful  manners,  his  accomplished  tones. 
These  ill-assorted  Abbes,  for  expense, 
Lived  on  the  bounty  of  his  Holiness, 
At  church,  at  cards,  they  scarcely  spoke  a  word; 
For  two  long  years  this  silence  was  preserved. 
Cassius  grew  weaker,  went  from  bad  to  worse, 
To  suppers  came  with  badly  powdered  hair, 
His  face  well  rouged,  nor  were  his  stockings 

straight. 
One  fine  spring  evening  a  young  lady  came 


46  SUZON 

From  Paris,  gracious,  beautifully  dressed, 
To  pay  respect  unto  his  Holiness. 
Cassius  behind  her  stood  immovable, 
And  there  remained,  for  he  was  not  observed. 
The  fact  is,  she  had  splendid  Spanish  eyes, 
An  air  of  sadness,  and  a  slender  foot; 
But  hardly  intellectual  was  she. 
When  leaving,  Cassius  closely  followed  her, 
And  saw  Fortunio  for  his  carriage  call. 
Seizing  him  forcibly,  he  cried,  "  Stop!  stop! " 
They  sought  a  garden  bench  and  sat  thereon. 
The  south  winds  whistled  o'er  their  heads ;  the  sky 
Was  dark  and  Cassius  spoke  with  furious  voice: 
"  There  was  a  time,"  said  he,  "  when  I  believed 
That  every  woman  merited  contempt. 
You  laughed,  and  answered  me,  '  Despise  thy- 
self! ' 

Vainly  I  strove  to  find  in  woman's  soul 
True  love  and  happiness,  but  what  I  found 
Was  what  I  made — the  instrument  of  lust — 
And  then  expected  love.    I  struck  the  chord 
Too  rudely,  and  expected  music  sweet. 
:  'Tis  not  a  chord,  my  friend,  'tis  but  a  note,' 
Saidst    thou    to    me :     '  Destroy    the    instru- 
ment    .      .      .' 

As  known  in  hell,  I  followed  thy  advice, 
A  philter  of  fell  poison  concentrate 
Thou  gavest  me,  for  her  the  foul  reward 
For  pale,  sad  love ;  and  drop  by  drop  it  wrought 
A  fierce  convulsion  in  her  body  soft. 


SUZON  47 

I  smote  a  statue,  and  the  woman  saw, 

And  in  my  arms  one  night  she  yielded  life. 

Fortunio,  thou  hast  committed  crime; 

That  little  vial  in  thy  hand  was  death; 

Thou  madest  me  the  assassin  of  a  soul." 

"And  what  wilt  thou?"  said  the  other;  "with 

these  words 

I  must  away ;  thou  must  make  greater  haste." 
"  Hast  thou,"  said  Cassius,  "  any  poison  left?  " 
"  Much  as  thou  mayest  require — the  box  is  full," 
Replied  Fortunio.      '  Then,"  continued  Cassius, 
"  Listen:  that  woman  vile  had  borne  the  name 
That  was  not  hers,  and  secret  lovers  had. 
I  did  but  crush  whatever  sap  remained 
In  heart  o'  the  fruit.    I'll  crush  another  heart 
That  blooms  for  me  alone,  that  after  me 
Can  not  be  oped  again.    I  want  another  life, 
And  I  will  add  my  own  unto  the  pact." 

"  Thy  wish 

Answered  Fortunio,  "  pleases  me  full  well ; 
But  tell  me,  Cassius,  more  explicitly, 
Who  is  thy  maiden?    Thou  must  have  her  fair; 
If  not,  the  trick  is  silly  and  half  worth. 
Besides,  I  do  confess  your  project  strange, 
Which  might  astonish  some  one  more  precise, 
Has  through  my  head  at  evening   sometimes 

passed : 

It  quite  agrees  with  humor  of  the  times. 
For  when  a  man  feels  weary  of  his  load, 


48  SUZON 

Dragging  his  ball  in  prison,  here  below, 
What  matters  mode  of  exit  from  his  pain? 
I  like  what  thou  art  telling  me  as  much 
As  one  may  some  fine  evening  take  his  snuff 
From  opium  cask,  or  from  his  powder-horn." 

"Ah,   well,"    said    Cassius,    "  let's    from   hence 

away! " 
And  with  slow  steps  they  both  regained  the 

street. 

"  But,"  said  Fortunio,  "  thy  fair  one's  name? " 
"  Let  us   advance,"   said   Cassius.     "  See  that 

statue  there; 

Seest  thou  that  half -oped  portico?    Her  house 
Is  back  of  it;  and  she  is  called  Suzon." 

And  now  the  Abbes  swiftly  crossed  the  town; 
And  at  Fortunio's  home  Cassius  grew  pale, 
While  at  his  drawer  the  other  tranquilly 
Brought  forth  the  drug,  prepared  it  skilfully. 
"  When,"  said  Fortunio,  "  did  you  know  this 

dame? 

Was  this  in  France  ?    How  else  does  she  you  love  ? 
The  second  time  I  saw  her  'tis  to-night." 
And  Cassius  replied,  "  I  have  seen  her  once." 
"  Ah,  then,  why  use  this  deadly  drug  so  soon? 
And  how  administer  with  sure  success? " 
"  I've  bribed  her  lackeys.    We've  decided  thus : 
To-morrow  Suzon  takes  it,  in  her  tea. 


SUZON  49 

Should  I  be  crushed  by  livid  thunderbolt, 
We'll  see  who  laughs,  when  her  deserted  home 
As  by  mistake  is  found  at  eve  with  open  door." 
"  What  do  you  say?  "  inquired  Fortunio; 
"Abuse  where  you're  not  loved!     The  casket 

steal 

Without  its  riches!    Ah,  'tis  infamous! 
Wilt  thou  with  poison  insensate  lay  low 
And  leave  her  naked  in  the  open  street, 
A  prey  unto  the  dog  that  passes  by? 
And  do  you,  Cassius,  hope  to  be  that  dog? 
And  will  you  hurl,  as  from  the  spheres  of  light, 
The  virtue  of  a  child,  who  for  support 
Has  faith  in  Heaven  and  for  the  earth  her  arms, 
To  foully  roll  with  her  one  night  in  mire, 
And  quench  forever  on  an  angel's  lips 
The  thirst  of  love?    Oh,  execrable  fiend, 
Is  it  for  end  like  this  her  mother  passed 
So  many  anxious  days  and  sleepless  nights? 
That  she,  herself,  to-night  at  bedside  prayed* 
That  she  has  closed  her  door  to  guard 
The  locked-up  treasure  of  her  maiden  love, 
A  modest  flower  in  a  cup  of  gold? 
When  I  advised  you  should  a  woman  slay, 
It  was  because  she  loved  you — there  at  least 
Was  happiness.     Oh!  stifle  not  your  flame 
Under  dead  ashes,  but  as  diver  seek 
That  pearl  which  slumbers  in  her  heart  of  gold." 
"And  how?"  said  Cassius;  "in  what  winning 

way 


50  SUZON 

Make  her  to  love  me?    Shall  I  kiss  her  foot, 
And  bind  my  wheel  to  the  eternal  rut — 
Become  her  shadow?    Ah,  mordieu!  too  long 
And  difficult  the  effort,  love  to  please. 
Besides,  may  I  not  please  her.    Doubtful  chance ; 
But  she  will  love  more  quickly  in  my  arms, 
When  death  is  panderer  between." 

"  I  see  you  know  not,"  said  Fortunio, 

"  The  greatest  means  of  all."     "  And  what  is 

that? " 

"  Why,  magnetism  is  your  surest  force." 
"Bah!"  said  Cassius.      'With  your  atheism, 
How  can  you  believe  in  it!    But  as  for  me, 
I've  faith  in  nothing  that  I  do  not  see." 
"Ah! "  said  the  other,  "  that  is  dogma  false: 
Your  logic  is,  believe  but  what  you  see; 
And  the  blind  man — what,  then,  shall  he  believe? 
Because  that  in  your  prison-house  of  clay 
One  or  two  windows  to  look  out  are  made; 
Because  but  half  of  streaming  ray  of  light 
From  the  sun  fallen,  may  enter  either  eye, 
If  not  barred  out  by  smallest  grain  of  dust, 
You  think  the  universe  will  enter  in! 
My  friend,  a  world  incessantly  revolves 
Around  us,  in  us,  that  we  see  nought  of. 
A  veiled  specter  which  creates  and  kills 
A  guardian  angel  and  a  masked  headsman. 
And  do  you  know,  when  you  a  maiden  touch, 
What  changes  in  her?  have  you  seen  the  force 


SUZON  51 

That  makes  you  quiver  when  her  eye  takes  fire? 
The  eagle,  flying  on  the  ocean's  edge, 
Calls  to  his  mate  with  but  a  glance  of  eye 
To  follow  him,  and  straightway  she  pursues. 
You,  a  confessor,  you,  a  priest  of  Rome, 
Believe  a  word  or  gesture  is  in  vain! 
Unhappy  one !  perchance  you  know  not  that 
Religion  is  a  gesture,  and  the  priest 
Who,  host  in  hand,  his  arms  raised  over  us, 
A  holy  magnetizer,  whom  one  kneeling  hears. 
Your  God  is  foolish  reason,  you  the  priest 
Who  wear  the  stole,  and  in  the  shadow  sit, 
Of  the  confessional,  and  hold  in  hand 
The  head  of  one  who  calls  you  father  dear, 
Who  tells  you  secrets  she  conceals  from  all, 
And  what  is  done  within  the  holy  place, 
Appeals  to  none,  not  even  unto  God! 
When  Christ  o'erthrew  the  many  gods  of  Rome, 
He  saw  what  step  that  man  had  yet  to  take 
Who  would  desire  the  mastery  of  self. 
Better  a  blinding  cave  than  golden  throne. 
Faith  is  that  power,  my  friend,  that   fearful 

force, 

That  makes  the  strong  man  slay  his  fellow  man 
Against  what  will  of  iron  the  weak  defends. 

"  When  solitary  night 
With  sable  mantle  settles  o'er  the  earth, 
The  herder  doth  invoke  the  Evil  One 
To  make  his  neighbor's  cow  untimely  yield 


52  SUZON 

Her  young.    Your  courage  you  must  summon 

up, 

Your  love,  your  blood,  and  god  of  human  will. 
Enter  the  room  wherein  Suzon  will  sleep, 
Nor  wake  her  till  you  cast  a  spell  on  her ; 
Lay  your  hand  gently  on  her  bared  breast, 
And  with  the  other  stroke  her  flowing  hair; 
Press  on  her  heart,  and  tell  her  that  you   will. 
Say  *  You  must  love  me  under  pain  of  death,' 
And  when  she  wakes  she  will  remember  it. 
Then  wound  her  somewhere  to  obtain  her  blood, 
And  wound  yourself  to  mix  her  blood  with  yours, 
No  matter  where  the  wound,  at  cheek,  or  ear, 
It  must  be  that  she  shivers  seeing  it. 
Then  the  next  day  be  harsh;  your  silence  keep; 
Be  firm,  but  do  not  let  her  be  afraid ; 
When  night  approaches,  you  begin  anew. 
Eight  days  of  trial  and  the  prey  is  yours." 
"  I  will,"  said  Cassius;  "  your  advice  is  good. 
This  night  she  will  begin  to  bear  her  cross, 
And  for  eight  days  will  bear  it,  come  what 

will!" 

He  was  mistaken — it  but  needed  three. 
On  the  fourth,  Suzon  straightway  she  confessed. 
Behind  a  pillar,  hidden  in  shadow  deep, 
Cassius  o'erheard  the  avowal  of  her  love. 
Thus  to  Fortunio :     '  Your  o'ershrewd  advice 
Has  borne  rich  fruit;  her  door  will  of  itself 
Now  widely  open,  for  I  know  she  loves." 


SUZON  53 

"Then,"  said  the  other,  "strike!  this  evening, 

strike!" 

'This  evening?"  the  excited  Cassius  said. 
"Yes,"  said  Fortunio,  "this  very  night!" 

At  sundown  Cassius  saw  Fortunio, 

And  said  he,  "  Come  to  supper;  I  have  yet  a  sum 

Of  forty  louis  that  I  may  expend. 

Another  man  more  wise  than  I  would  make 

Some  beggar  rich.    Let's  to  the  inn  repair." 

It  was  a  night  so  beauteous  and  benign, 

When   balmy   winds   played   in   the   perfumed 

flowers, 

And  the  night  crickets,  'neath  the  rambler's  foot, 
Sang  in  grass  lighted  by  the  glowworm's  lamp. 
The  moon  arose  above  the  swaying  trees 
That  threw  their  shadows  on  the  marble  walls, 
And  fell  on  shining  waves  of  river  deep, 
And  on  colossi  of  the  granite  gods 
That  guarded  graves  in  near-by  sepulcher. 
In  smoky  corner  of  a  noisome  inn 
The  Abbes  on  a  table  crossed  their  arms. 
"  And  now,"  cried  Cassius,  "  why  not  sing  a 

song? " 

And  at  one  gulp  he  drained  a  bottle  full. 
"  Come,  Abbe,  give  a  toast  to  my  Suzon! " 
He  stood,  with  rapt  eyes  on  his  comrade  fixed, 
And  sang  this  song  as  'twere  a  serenade : 

If  Lilla  would  but  promise  me 
To  let  me  in,  when  night  shall  be, 
Without  a  priest  we'd  wedded  be ; 


54  SUZON 

I'd  leave  by  window  at  a  leap 
When  her  mother  wakes  from  sleep. 

Are  we,  then,  old  women  dear, 
Who  ever  live  in  deadly  fear 
Of  hell  and  devil  year  by  year, 
Waiting  till  their  worn-out  hearts 
Each  from  a  loathsome  skin  departs. 

Now  that  my  poison  is  set  up, 
With  Lilla  I'd  sit  down  to  sup. 
A  man  is  free  to  smash  his  cup, 
Yes,  by  the  Holy  Father's  fat ! 
When  he  has  drunk  of  wine  like  that. 

Has  Heaven  made  nature  to  sign  pact  with 

Death, 

Or  does  it  laugh  like  spirit  devilish, 
When  it  beholds  a  newly  opened  grave? 
Never  had  midnight  wind  from  starry  depths 
Wafted  so  gaily  o'er  the  balcony 
The  sigh  of  love  to  slumbering  Suzon, 
As  when  the  Abbes,  humming  their  romance, 
On  the  dry  heath  holding  each  other's  arm, 
Strode  eagerly  to  consummate  their  deed. 

Next  day  all  Rome  had  heard  the  horrid  news 
That  some  unknown  had  killed  the  sweet  Suzon; 
And  at  her  stairway's  foot  there  lay  the  priest 
Fortunio,  asleep,  and  Cassius  nowhere  found. 

A  cursing  madman  since  that  day,  at  times, 
Will  come  to  sit  at  drowsy  noontide  hour 


SUZON  55 

Beside  the  lazzaroni  in  the  sun; 

He  whispers,  and  makes  passes  over  them,  and 

mocks 

The  motions  of  a  dervish  who  can  hypnotize, 
And,  wakening  them,  he  strikes  them  blows. 
'Tis  Cassius  who  survives  Suzon:  his  victim 

sweet, 

Who  in  his  murderous  arms  that  night  expired! 
Who,  still  alive,  too  cowardly  to  die, 
Soon,  like  a  homeless  dog,  will  expiate 
In  gutters  foul  his  miserable  deed. 

1831. 


SECRET    THOUGHTS    OF  RAPHAEL 

(A  FRENCH  GENTLEMAN) 

FRAGMENT 

CRITICS  of  incorruptible  renown, 
Guardians  of  fame  of  living  and  the  dead, 
Guards  of  Olympus  where  the  laurel  blooms! 
Affected  and  restrained,  as  pedants  are, 
Dispensers  of  good  taste,  discoverers 
Of  truth,  or  bathos,  in  a  simple  lay, 
The  only  authorized  immortal  ones, 
Who,  with  disdainful  arm  on  honest  breast, 
Or  shaking  snuff  from  off  your  worn-out  sleeves, 
Have  coughed  and  breathed  upon  your  spec- 
tacles, 

And  settled  in  your  chairs;  with  careful  hands 
Have  oped  the  poet's  volume  and  impartially 
Have  read  my  simple  Ballad  to  the  Moon. 

Masters  divine,  where  shall  I  find,  alas! 
Water  to  drown  myself,  or  rope  to  hang, 
For  having  forgotten  to  write  under  it: 
The  public  is  requested  to  be  good. 
A  phrase  so  cheap  and  simple  nowadays, 
And  which  is  seen  on  pillars  constantly! 
A  h,  povero  ohime!    What  was  thought 

56 


THOUGHTS    OF    RAPHAEL       57 

By  the  fair  sex  who  read  the  simple  lay? 
Ah,  masters,  I  can  see  you  knit  your  brows, 
That  take  the  form  of  accent  circumflex. 

And  you,  free-thinkers,  when  you  dine  you  hold 
Council  of  state,  in  garrulous  converse; 
And  you,  immortal  journalists,  to  find 
Wandering  lonely,  on  your  antiquated  lists, 
The  name  of  a  subscriber,  gives  you  joy. 
Can  you  repeat  the  Pater?  and  the  sins 
Of  others,  do  they  find  aught  favor  in  your  eyes? 
How  FalstafF  would  have  shaken  with  delight 
On  seeing  these  fools  infuriate  with  champagne, 
Bringing  a  stone  to  kill  a  harmless  fly ! 

Hail,  youthful  champions  of  a  cause  grown  old, 
Smooth-shaven  classics,  rubicund  of  face, 
Bearded  romantics,  with  blanched  visages, 
Friends   of   departed    Greeks   camped   on   her 

shores 

To  fight  the  champions  of  medieval  life; 
All  hail!  I've  fought  in  both  your  warring  camps, 
By  numerous  campaigns  have  become  a  man; 
Veterans,  I  sit  upon  my  silent  drum. 
Racine  and  Shakespeare  on  my  table  lie, 
And  there  is  Boileau,  who  has  pardoned  them. 
But  then,  dear  readers,  if  your  learned  brains 
Have  suddenly  grown  arid  on  Thenard, 
Regenerate  scions  of  immortal  France, 
Who  talk  of  verse,  or  of  Nature  in  Art, 


58       THOUGHTS    OF    RAPHAEL 

Youth  of  the  century!  intrepid  youth! 
Say,  can  you  leave  the  circling  Globe,  or  dull 
Debats,  for  me,  a  child  of  idleness    .     .     . 
If  so,  then  once  again  my  lyre  will  sing. 

Oh,  my  fair  country,  France;  what  outrages 
Have  I  imposed  on  thy  harmonious  tongue ; 
Idiom  of  love,  so  sweet  that  speaking  it, 
Thy  women  wear  a  smile  upon  their  lips; 
Thy  speech  is  sweetest  manna  in  the  mouth; 
From  lyre  or  heart  no  sweeter  honey  flows. 
Ancestress,  nurse,  and  glorious  mother,  France! 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me?    Shall  I  worthy  be 
To  make  the  golden  harp  vibrate  again? 
No  more,  fair  Paris,  shall  I  undertake 
To  celebrate  the  sons  of  foreign  lands! 
I  shall  not  leave  this  soil  inviolate 
Where,  near  the  palaces,  thy  Seine  reflects, 
Thou,  Daughter  of  the  West,   shall  hear  me 
sing    .     .     . 

Reader,  I  ask  if,  after  having  dined, 

Is  it  a  human  weakness  to  deplore, 

To  sleep  an  hour  while  waiting  for  the  tea? 

We  drowse,  alas!  when  newspapers  are  bare 

Of  news,  or  when  we  try  to  read 

Some  pamphlet  fatal  to  insomnia, 

Or  memoirs  of  a  Prince!    Essays  on  art    .     .     . 

O  precious  books!  without  you  we  are  lost. 

To  lay  one's  forehead  on  your  pages  bland, 


THOUGHTS    OF   RAPHAEL        59 

Soothes  like  the  perfumed  drops  of  opium, 
Or  eating  of  the  fruit  insomnium! 

For  a  quart  d'heure  reclining  on  his  chair, 

Raphael  (my  hero)  sweetly  slept. 

Note  well,  dear  reader,  and  be  not  displeased, 

That  he  is  not  a  hero  of  romance. 

His  arms  are  crossed ;  an  ample  cloak  enfolds 

His  form  in  all  its  sweet  simplicity; 

His  body  delicate  as  devotee; 

His  rosy  limbs,  soothed  by  a  recent  bath; 

His  hair  perfumed  with  odor  a  la  rose. 

Languidly  the  zephyr  plays  with  him. 

His  growling  pug  resting  on  the  floor 

Proudly  supports  his  crossed  and  outstretched 

feet ; 

While  at  his  side,  'neath  alabaster  vase, 
Sleeps  in  the  ice  his  soothing  Burgundy, 
And  there,  half -eaten  in  its  china  dish, 
His  pudding  breathing  with  a  bluish  flame. 
Its  perfume,  mingled  with  the  cigarette, 
Rolls  round  the  draperies  in  azure  mist, 
And  like  a  dream  it  slowly  disappears. 

When  games  get  wearisome,  a  few  cigars 

Are  means  efficient  to  put  time  to  death. 

The  soul  (if  God  will  that  we  have  a  soul!) 

Has  not  assuredly  more  vivid  flame 

Than  this  light  sylph  that  burns  within  the  bowl, 

Wherein  the  punch  smiles  on  its  bright  tripod ; 


CO       THOUGHTS    OF   RAPHAEL 

Grog  is  as  fashionable  as  wine  of  France, 
And  stirs  deep  gaiety  within  the  heart. 
But  say,  what  man,  though  in  Siberia  born, 
From  languid  kisses  of  a  frozen  pair, 
Though  under  haircloth  he  had  long  repressed 
The  barren  sap  that  filled  his  sluggish  veins; 
Though  he  had  fed  his  childhood  on  rank  meats 
And  juiceless  vegetables  without  heat; 
What  man,  with  triple  agency  of  punch, 
And  wine,  and  the  cigarro,  would  not  feel 
An  ardent  joy  consuming  him  amain 
The  dawn  of  Eden  in  his  anxious  dreams  ?    .    .    . 
Oh,  queen  of  heaven,  mother  of  ardent  love! 
O  beauty  pale,  sweet  Aristocracy! 
Daughter  of  wealth    .     .     .    Oh,  thou  whom  we 

forget, 

Whom  our  poor  France  loved  in  her  olden  days! 
Thou,  whom  of  yore,  with  spear  of  lightning-rod, 
The  daring  Franklin  hurled  into  the  ground, 
Where  well-protected  colonists  controlled 
Slaves  and  tobacco,  as  prime  source  of  wealth ; 
Thou,    who    created    Paris,    and   bade    Athens 

mourn, 

And  who,  under  the  gory  throne  imperial, 
Put  Bonaparte  to  sleep,  as  Caesar  slept, 
And  rumblings  of  the  proletariat! 
Thou,  in  thy  springtime,  art  with  roses  crowned, 
Iphigenia,  at  the  altar  dressed, 
To  fall  when  stricken  by  a  mortal  blow     .     .     . 
Hast  thou  abandoned  earth,  regained  the  sky, 


THOUGHTS    OF    RAPHAEL       61 

And  found  again,  like  Cleopatra's  pearl, 
A  fertile  spring  of  passion  and  of  joy, 
Which  one  day  in  its  billows  will  consume    .     .    . 
"Hey!  hey!  Parbleu!"  a  voice  cried.     "Here 

he  is!" 
"  Come  in,"  said  Raphael,   "  I've  had  a  little 

snooze! " 

1831. 


NAMOUNA 

AN  ORIENTAL  TALE 

FIRST  CANTO 


A  woman  is  like  your  shadow ;  run  after  it,  it  flees ;  fly 
from  it,  it  pursues  you. 

THE  sofa  on  which  Hassan  was  asleep 
Was  of  its  kind  an  admirable  thing ! 

It  was  of  bearskin,  shaggy,  soft,  and  deep, 
A  most  luxurious  couch  for  slumbering. 

Noble  his  attitude,  yet  most  sedate; 

Naked  as  Eve  ere  she  the  apple  ate. 

II 

What!  naked,  you  will  say,  and  felt  no  sin? 

Naked — and     with     the     second     word — oh, 

shame ! 
Excuse  me,  sir,  my  story  I  begin, 

Just  as  my  hero  from  his  bathing  came. 
I  crave  indulgence  for  him,  nay,  demand. 
Naked  was  Hassan,  naked  as  your  hand. 

Ill 

Bare  as  a  silver  dish,  or  convent  wall, 
Bare  as  th'  academician  in  his  speech. 

62 


NAMOUNA  63 

My  lady  blushes,  says  'tis  scandal  all! 

But,    madame,    why    should    you    incline    to 

preach, 

When  breast  and  leg  proclaim  a  perfect  mold 
When  all  is  known,  a  tale  by  all  men  told? 

IV 

She  says  her  feet  her  carriage-step  must  press, 
Must  cross  the  bridges  when  the  wind  is  high; 

Who  sees  the  foot,  the  leg  may  surely  guess, 
How  charming  is  that  foot  to  roving  eye. 

I,  counting  little  in  the  world,  repeat, 

She  loved  too  well.    Are  lovers  all  discreet? 


What  crime  is  it  to  set  one's  self  at  ease, 

When  one  meets  tender  love — and  it  is  warm? 

Naked  in  comfort,  well  the  chair  agrees! 
Believe  me,  lady,  for  there  is  no  harm ; 

You,  were  you  mine,  so  soon  therein  should  lie; 

Your  cry,  not  loud,  would  break  and  feebly  die. 

VI 

In  the  beloved,  what  can  we  fondly  love? 

The  silk's  soft  texture  or  the  tinsel  light? 
The  bracelet's  gold,  the  perfumed  comb  above? 

No,  madame,  'tis  yourself,  more  fair  and  bright 
Than  costume's  weapon;  and  our  joy  unvext 
To  conquer  first,  to  strip  off  armor  next. 


64  NAMOUNA 

VII 

Except  hypocrisy,  naked  is  all 

In  heaven,  on  earth,  and  everywhere  below; 
Children,  divinities,  the  tomb,  the  pall; 

All  hearts,  if  beautiful,  their  beauty  show. 
For  this,  our  comedy,  the  hero,  quite  content, 
Is  naked,  madame,  so  you  may  consent. 

VIII 

Prevailing  silence,  perfect  in  this  tale, 
About  his  arms,  about  his  ivory  feet; 

His  loss  the  Naiad  wept,  green-eyed  and  pale ; 
Deep  in  the  bath  were  hardly  heard  to  fleet 

Deep  flowing  waters,  and  with  many  a  stop 

Sang  the  bronze  faucets,  trickling  drop  on  drop. 

IX 

The  sun  was  sinking — the  September  sun, 
Sad  month  with  us,  but  month  without  a  peer, 

For  all  that  gilding  orb  showers  blessings  on. 
One  foot  could  touch  the  chamber-door,  and 
here 

He  lit  the  opium  in  the  amber  bowl, 

Liking  to  sleep,  regrets  vex  not  his  soul. 

X 

Although  few  feet  he  stood,  not  tall,  but  short, 
A  man  he  was,  I  think,  of  no  small  force ; 


NAMOUNA  65 

His  character  he  hid,  enough  his  port; 

The  trade-mark  little,  but  the  make  was  scarce, 
Proportions  fine,  his  mother,  one  had  thought, 
Shaping  him  small,  had  sheer  perfection  wrought. 

XI 

Opinionated,  indolent  he  was; 

Quite  straight,  well-groomed,  a  face  of  olive 

hue; 
Patrician  hands,  a  haughty  look,  because 

The  nerves  were  firm;  black  beard  and  brows, 

and  these 

Of  alabaster,  and  superb  the  eye. 
The  hair?    All  word  on  that  my  lines  deny: 

XII 

That  vanity  in  Tartar  lands  they  shave; 

However,  Tartary  was  not  his  home. 
A  renegade,  himself  to  France  he  gave; 

A  swindling  knight  to  riches  late  he  clomb, 
And  flung,  as  tatters,  idly  on  the  sea, 
His  faith,  his  title,  nay,  his  family. 

XIII 

Gay  was  he,  but  agreeable  to  few; 

A  neighbor  to  detest,  yet  comrade  firm; 
None  vainer,  graver,  found  in  all  the  crew; 

His  frankness  was  a  sham,  a  very  worm. 
Blase,  acute,  and  insincere,  a  dread — 
Forget  not,  reader,  all  that  serenade. 


66  NAMOUNA 

XIV 

Don  Juan,  he  sang  beneath  the  balcony 
A  woful,  melancholy,  doleful  song 

Of  love,  of  sorrow,  and  of  misery ; 

Not  to  such  wailings  do  these  times  belong. 

They  gaily  trip  with  agile  leap  and  spring, 

Caressing  words,  that  rise  on  love's  own  wing. 

XV 

Upon  the  sweet,  perfidious  instrument, 

A  languor,  while  the  mocking  notes  keep  tune 

Derisive  with  the  lay  on  grief  intent, 

And  sneering  laugh  and  jeer  the  mourning 
rune. 

Now  that  should  give  deep  pleasure,  you  believed ; 

The  truth — deception  and  a  love  deceived. 

XVI 

We  weep,  we  laugh,  and  innocent  are  we 
At  once,  and  guilty,  perjured  oft,  mayhap, 

When  merely  tricked  ourselves;  and  blood  you 

see 
All  shed  with  unstained  hands.    In  nature's  lap 

Are  creatures  ill  and  good  of  mingled  mold. 

Such  Hassan,  such  the  world,  the  young,  the  old. 

XVII 

A  fine,  good  fellow,  sure  he  seemed  to  be, 
So  very  good,  yet  overmuch  the  child. 


NAMOUNA  67 

And  when  he  swore,  "  I  wish,"  a  stone  was  he! 
His  coat  he  changed,  and  though  his  mind  was 

mild, 

Failed  not  the  last  and  worst,  or  best,  to  do ; 
Mere  water  first,  to  very  rock  he  grew. 

XVIII 

Fickle  are  fancies!  Strange  caprice!    He  bore 
Unusual  things  with  no  good  grace.    A  fly 

Upon  the  ground  he  could  not  trample  o'er; 
But  if  at  dinner  he  should  only  one  espy, 

Such  folk  would  suffer,  four  or  five  be  slain! 

Talk  now  of  good  men,  talk  of  bad  again ! 

XIX 

Assert,  withal,  in  loud,  imperious  tone, 
That  I,  an  author,  must  the  heart  explore — 

The  heart,  the  human  heart  for  law  alone! 
Whose  human  heart?    Of  one,  or  many  more? 

My  neighbor's  has  its  frame,  its  being's  stamp; 

For  me,  morbleu!  my  heart's  the  guiding  lamp! 

XX 

This  life  belongs  to  all ;  the  one  I  lead, 

With  all  the  devil  in  it,  is  a  life. 
"  Then,"  comes  the  cry,  "  yourself,  naught  else 
we  read, 

The  hero,  you ;  this  stage  your  scene  of  strife." 
Not  so,  dear  reader;  one  can  lend  his  nose, 
The  next  his  heel,  a  third — a  secret  will  expose! 


68  NAMOUNA 

XXI 

"  A  monster,  then,  a  freak  you  will  display ; 

You  form  a  child  that  never  father  had." 
No  father!    When,  like  Trissotin,  this  day 

I  bore  him  at  my  publisher's,  egad! 
Besides,  is  pater  est  quern  nuptice  . 
Latin  I  speak,  and  for  forgiveness  cry. 

XXII 

Consult  the  jurists,  modern  and  antique; 

One  always  is,  quoth  Bridoison,  the  son 
Of  some  one.    Dark  or  fair  the  child,  or  weak, 

Consumptive,  dwarfish,  palsied,  eyes  but  one — 
A  fine  thing  still  to  have  the  babe  begot. 
Mine's  not  historical,  and  this  no  blot. 

XXIII 

Consider,  too,  that  I  have  stolen  naught 
In  any  library ;  and  while  our  verse 

Is  of  the  Orient,  I  have  not  sought 

To  prate  of  that.    You'll  find  the  tale  no  worse ; 

The  East  is  vast  and  far!    Great  wonders  rise 

From  memory,  and  travel  dims  the  eyes. 

XXIV 

If  with  my  brush,  one  only  stroke,  I  built 
A  blue-roofed  city  or  a  mosque  all  white, 

A  rhyming  picture,  silver,  gold,  or  gilt, 
Illusion  of  tall  minarets  so  bright, 


NAMOUNA  69 

Horizon  far  and  red  to  match  with  sky, 

How  could  you  answer,  "  Sir,  in  faith,  you  lie! " 

XXV 

All  this,  dear  reader,  you  may  bear  in  mind, 

And  kindly  grant  me  favor  in  return. 
Eccentric  is  the  hero  you  will  find; 

His  passion  was  to  be  eccentric.    Learn 
Dear  madame,  all  the  truth  of  angels  here! 
"  Tartuffe,  where  are  they?  "    Truth  he  tells,  I 
fear. 

XXVI 

Hassan  is  one  on  whom  we  ne'er  could  count, 
Nor  would  I  try  to  make  you  friendly  mates; 

His  heart  an  inn  where  stairways  do  not  mount ; 
His  very  friend  knows  nothing,  ne'er  relates 

A  tale  about  him.    Hard,  indeed,  to  write 

Of  feelings  lost  beneath  the  pillows  white. 

XXVII 

No  relatives  had  he,  nor  courtesan; 

No  dog,  no  cat,  to  talk  to  or  caress; 
No  bond  of  union  with  his  fellow  man, 

No  outward  source  of  joy,  or  bitterness. 
To  say  my  hero  was  a  haughty  lord, 
'Tis  too  unskilful,  really,  'pon  my  word. 

XXVIII 

To  say  that  he's  mysterious  and  morose, 

Would  not  be  true ;  in  fact  it  might  be  worse. 


70  NAMOUNA 

Indeed,  by  all  that's  banal  or  jocose, 

Such  epithets  are  but  a  foolish  curse. 
Since  I'm  his  father,  let  me  say  my  prize 
Looks  like  a  picture,  and  has  lovely  eyes. 

XXIX 

He  neither  God  nor  devil  feared,    To  say 
Such  words  is  hazardous,  if  not  untrue. 

To  say  he'll  please  you  would  be  speaking  gay; 
If  I  keep  silence  'twill  not  trouble  you. 

The  only  term  that  will  describe  the  case, 

Is,  he's  original!  'tis  no  disgrace. 

XXX 

Would  God,  to  whom  is  possible  each  thing, 

I  might  be  justified  for  all  I  say. 
My  law  is  truth,  and  fictions  none  I  bring. 

If  Hassan  acts  unseemly,  night  or  day, 
So  much  the  worse  for  him  alone ;  for,  see, 
Should  Hassan's  follies  glance  and  fall  on  me? 

XXXI 

However  little  I  be  known  to  men, 

You  see  a  hero  wholly  different. 
Now  some  pretensions  I  can  sure  maintain 

To  conduct  delicate  in  hours  I  spent 
With  my  own  mistress — peaceful  hours ; 
I  know  not,  bear  me  witness  heavenly  powers  1 


NAMOUNA  71 

XXXII 

How  such  as  I  could  dare  to  broach  the  tale, 
All  full  and  dark  with  rank  atrocity; 

Even  now  temptations  haunt  me  and  assail, 
For  greater  glory ;  bravely  put  it  by, 

And  burn  the  stuff  I  would,  in  faith — yes,  but 

Upon  posterity  my  eyes  I  put. 

XXXIII 

Hassan,  I  said,  was  born,  no  doubt,  in  France. 

But  how,  at  twenty,  could  the  boy  believe 
By  what  absurd  and  dull  extravagance 

That  women  are  but  toys ;  and  how  conceive, 
If  one  were  found  and  suited  to  his  youth, 
If  kept  a  week,  was  but  an  age  in  truth? 

XXXIV 

This  system,  you  must  feel,  is  quite  absurd, 
Since  when  we  say  we  love,  most  certain  'tis 

We  also  say,  forever.    Who  has  heard 
That  either  king  or  bard  considered  his 

The  right  to  love,  to  love  them  but  eight  days? 

But  then,   our   spoiled   child,   Hassan,   merely 
plays. 

XXXV 

One  day  he  said:  "  I  know  full  well  my  cream 
Is  always  sour,  or  half  the  time  at  least; 

The  vinegar  of  centuries,  'twould  seem, 

And  milk,  you  know,  is  rare  for  seasons  past. 


72  NAMOUNA 

In  love  to  be  a  slave's  vile  chain  and  log, 
Rather  than  that,  I'd  be  the  black  man's  dog; 

XXXVI 

"Or  die  beneath  the  lash  like  balky  horse, 
Than  fear  a  petticoat,  and  mistress  have 

Who  plays  the  role  of  jailer.     What  is  worse 
Than  to  be  known  as  such  a  creature's  slave, 

And  suffer  her  to  lead  you  by  a  string? 

Thrashed  by  a  stick  is  not  so  bad  a  thing. 

XXXVII 

"  The  situation  known,  what  to  expect 

He   kens,   anoints  his   back,    and   learns   by 

use; 

By  gilded  ribbons  lives  befooled  and  wrecked ! 
Milk-sweetened,  green  the  tights,  and  taut  the 

noose ! 

About  his  prison  runs  a  wall  so  frail, 
If  he  would  hang,  he  finds  nor  hook  nor  nail. 

XXXVIII 

"  A  climax  horrid  comes  to  cap  his  state : 
She  may  be  mild,  yet  not  very  polite, 

Yet,  eight  days  ended,  she  will  search  her  pate 
Her  heart's  forgotten  nooks,  in  cunning  spite, 

To  find  some  lover  whom  she  knew  of  old, 

With  soul  expansive,  leg  of  perfect  mold, 


NAMOUNA  73 

XXXIX 

"  More  sweetness  in  the  soul,  in  arm  more  fight!  " 
My  reader  I  remind,  as  heretofore, 

The  hero  raves:  of  shame  I'd  die,  and  fright, 
If  he  supposed  that  what  I  now  outpour 

Could  fail  to  grieve  me;  nay,  I  feel  the  shock 

When  amorous  Hassan  does  his  soul  unlock. 

XL 

'  The  more  my  talent  bideth  green  and  hale," 

Said  Hassan,  "  then  the  more  I  cogitate, 
If  friendship  keeps  one  grain  upon  the  scale. 

Hopeful  is  memory,  suffering  yet  elate, 
A  fervent  child  sustained  by  sister's  might. 
The  mind's  eye  sees  not  with  the  heart's  own 
sight. 

XLI 

"Distaste  is  hatred — cause  for  hate  is  none; 

Then  why  should  any  one  with  me  be  wroth? 
A  woman  tells  you  that  she  weeps  alone, 

And  I,  my  tears  do  make  me  totter,  loth 
To  speak.    Unfortunate,  I  need  an  arm 
To  help ;  to  beg  forgiveness  were  a  harm. 

XLII 

"  The  body  I  forego,  the  soul  retain. 

And  yet,  we  hear  that  many  fair  ones  now 
Exist  from  whom  to  part  we're  doubly  fain, 

Deprived  of  all  and  blighted  every  vow. 


74  NAMOUNA 

A  falsehood  infamous,  ignoble  jest, 

Which  finds  no  echo  in  the  goodman's  breast." 

XLIII 

The  word  of  Hassan  said  in  self-defense, 

And  this,  of  course,  occurred  in  France,  what 
time 

He  wore  that  cap  up-tilted  in  pretense, 
Supported  by  one  ear,  and  then,  sublime, 

He  sees  it  dancing  o'er  the  mills,  a  jig. 

This  reasoning  small  just  fits  a  brain  so  big. 

XLIV 

To  treat  of  love  he  framed  his  catechisms 
As  guides  and  gilt  the  sophistry  with  care, 

And  yet  his  nerves  could  drag  him  down  abysms 
Of  pleasure  which  wild  paroxysms  prepare; 

Spasms  and  inconceivable  wild  dreams, 

In   which   he   mastered   tears,    and    sighs,    and 
screams. 

XLV 

He  trembled  slightly,  turned  extremely  pale, 
Convulsed  his  throat,  and  blasphemies  were 

heard, 
Low,  incoherent,  and  of  no  avail. 

No  more ;  his  mistress  lay  quite  undisturbed, 
While  only  this  she  knew :  he  grasps  her  arms, 
Lies    breathless,    strengthless,    heedless    of    her 
charms. 


NAMOUNA  75 

XL  VI 

Intoxication  laughable  and  vain! 

Succeed  by  tempestuous  delight, 
With  showers  of  madrigals,  again,  again, 

To  coax  his  fair,  although  the  rhyme's  not 

right. 

He  turned  to  honey,  sugar  and  caress, 
Grew  fit  for  sacrament  and  would  confess. 

XL  VII 

Then  there  existed  neither  secret  deep, 
Nor  confidence  that  could  resist  his  sway; 

All  the  effusions  in  the  world  that  leap 
And  rise  to  splendor  in  the  light  of  day, 

Care,  glory,  love,  and  hope  and  life  unfurled, 

Made  the  confessional  a  little  world. 

XL  VIII 

A  great  misfortune  to  the  loving  heart, 
The  bond  of  iron  which  Dame  Nature  fits 

Between  the  soul  and  body  lest  they  part. 
I  am  astounded  that  our  God  permits 

A  Gordian  knot  for  Alexander's  ire. 

Fling  down  that  iron  in  the  withering  fire ! 

XLIX 

Though  they  be  foes,  yet  hand  in  hand  they  go, 
As  long  as  our  world  lasts,  and  side  by  side 


76  NAMOUNA 

As  move  the  Roman  soldiers  on  the  foe. 

"  Thou  evil  dost,"  one  said.    "  Thy  fault,"  re- 
plied 

The    other.      Wretched    host,    more    wretched 
guest ! 

A  lie,  to  say  what  is,  is  for  the  best. 

L 

The  proof  is,  the  unanswerable  proof, 

That   this   world's    bad,    is   that   we   breathe 
therein. 

We  make  a  new  one  for  our  own  behoof 
Quite  other,  strange,  absurd,  and  not  akin 

To  that  the  only  one  of  genuine  worth ; 

Unfit  to  last  one  instant  after  birth. 

LI 

Yes,  doubt  not  this  that  pleasure  cheats  the  boy 
Whose  soul  is  drunken  with  the  senses'  wine; 

Who  seeks  in  kisses  timid  sensual  joy; 

Betrayed  is  she  who,  like  young  Elfride  fine, 

Drops  her  heart's  key  in  foaming  torrent's  rage ; 

But  happy  all  who  tranquilly  engage. 

LII 

Like  our  old  Vizier  with  the  Sultan's  child, 
To    keep    'twixt   him    and    woman,    shining 
sword ! 

The  foulest  altars  blest  if  not  defiled ! 

The  lazy  man  is  lucky,  seems  content,  restored 


NAMOUNA  77 

If  pleasure  endeth  dull !  the  courtesan 
Beholds  no  tears  upon  this  smiling  man. 

LIII 

The  chasm  is  deep  and  very  smooth  the  slope! 

Our  mistress,  whom  we  love  with  ardent  art, 
Plaintive  comes  in  with  love's  caressing  hope, 

And  whispering,  lingers,  laying  heart  to  heart. 
The  man  is  weak,  and  grand  the  woman's  might, 
Where  path  of  pleasure  is,  whose  torch  is  bright. 

LIV 

Poor  mortals  we!  and  who  so  yields  his  heart, 
Sooner  or  later  will  lament  the  deed. 

The  cup  is  brimming;  he  who  quaffs  will  start 
Laughter  and  pity,  nor  his  trembling  heed. 

So  is  the  world,  and  knowing  danger's  deep, 

I  say  in  sorrow,  better  boundless  sleep. 

LV 

A  sleep  with  dreams!  And  beautiful  is  life 
When  dreams  divine  into  its  saddened  eye 

Pour  rays  enchanting,  stilling  every  strife, 
Fresher  than  dews,  the  children  of  the  sky. 

Like  birds  that  fly  above  at  night,  our  dreams 

Defy,  unharmed,  reality's  dark  streams. 

LVI 

Ah,  were  it  always  possible  to  dream! 

But  our  somnambulist  with  outstretched  hand, 


78  NAMOUNA 

Meets  nature's  stout,  unyielding  iron  beam, 

And  beats  his  head  against  a  brazen  band! 
Frames  coats  of  armor,  proof  to  any  fire ! 
Feeds  love  like  hunger  till  all  craving  tire ! 

LVII 

Manon  Lescaut  is  with  the  opening  scene 
So  living  and  so  human  and  so  true, 

We  say  we  know  the  portrait — aye,  have  been 
To  see  her.    Heloise  is  but  a  view, 

A  shadow  which,  we  liking,  don't  believe. 

Ye  dreamers,  tell  me,  which  of  us  deceive? 

LVIII 

Why  thus  parade  these  specters  of  the  light 
Before  the  curtain  as  we  lie  awake, 

When  here  on  earth  each  dream  of  weary  night 
Must  fade,  with  all  desire  fast  bound  to  stake. 

An  eagle  wounded,  all  his  sands  are  run, 

With  outspread  wings  and  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

LIX 

Manon,  thou  female  sphinx,  thou  siren  fair, 
Thrice  feminine  with  panniers  on  thy  side; 

A  Cleopatra,  yet  more  debonair, 

Thy  book,  they  say,  is  but  the  ashman's  pride: 

Yet  thou  art  worthy,  and  Cleomenes 

Less  beauty  shows  in  all  his  Venuses. 


NAMOUNA  79 

LX 

Even  as  Tiberges  wearies,  you  amuse; 

I  love  and  hate  thee,  and  believe  in  thee. 
What  strange  perversity!    Our  life  unloose 

For  gold  and  pleasure!    Life  and  destiny 
In  thy  least  words,  mad  woman  that  thou  art ! 
I'd  love  thee  yet,  wert  thou  a  living  heart! 

LXI 

Reader,  I  think  I'm  in  my  dotage  sere, 

For  all  I  say,  irrational  it  seems; 
Now  when  I  say  a  good  thing,  'twill  be  dear; 

I've  made  a  hiatus  with  foolish  dreams. 
I  did  intend  to  be  more  explicit. 
What  was  I  saying?    What  the  devil  was  it? 

LXII 

Oh,  here  it  is!    That  Hassan  with  a  woman 
Was  most  effusive;  he'd  have  all,  or  nothing. 

I  must  confess,  'tis  plain  to  any  sloven, 

Where'er  the  body  goes  the  soul  is  coming; 

The  one  is  smoke,  the  other  a  clear  flame; 

The  one  is  lust,  the  other  a  good  name. 

LXIII 

I  know  not  even  what  was  Hassan's  creed, 
Nor  if  so  bright  a  soul  had  e'er  confessed, 

Nor  in  what  manner,  when  so  full  of  greed, 
His  one-time  mistresses  his  soul  distressed; 


80  NAMOUNA 

Nor  what  he  thought  of  them — nor  if  his  grief 
Had  made  him  curse  their  love  and  friendship 
brief. 

LXIV 

But  finally,  not  knowing  what  to  do, 
And  ill  at  ease  in  front  of  his  tall  glass, 

He  read  "  The  Arabian  Nights,"  where  sultan's 

slew 
Sultanas  daily,  and  it  came  to  pass, 

Enamored  of  Arabian  girls,  this  man 

Became  thenceforth  a  faithful  Mussulman. 

LXV 

On  the  first  of  every  month  a  wily  Jew 

To   Hassan   brought   two   maidens   sweet   as 
honey ; 

At  end  of  every  month,  their  duties  through, 
They  got  a  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  some  money, 

And  being  clothed,  were  sent  into  the  street, 

And  thus  their  education  was  complete. 

LXVI 

Thus  lusty  Hassan,  several  times  a  week, 
Gave  up  his  soul  to  pleasure's  rosy  bed. 

He   spoke   in   French    (he   could   not   Turkish 

speak), 
And  with  strange  viands  he  was  comforted. 

An  old  Egyptian  was  his  janitor; 

This  grim  duenna  oped  and  closed  the  door. 


NAMOUNA  81 

LXVII 

Now  this  may  seem  most  extraordinary, 
To  feed  on  virgins  almost  night  and  day. 

It  seems  that  Hassan,  on  the  contrary, 

Believed  his   life  was   commonplace,   though 
gay. 

Therefore  in  his  belief  we  let  him  be; 

He  wants  to  sleep,  when  loving  valiantly. 

LXVIII 

Sleep  will  not  come,  for  sleep  is  sometimes  coy; 

Instead,  sweet  reverie  of  soul  and  sense 
Comes  with  the  open  eyes,  to  sleep  destroy. 

It  is  the  languorous  joy  of  indolence, 
That  when  it  leaves  you,  you  will  think  you  slept, 
And  rise  to  life,  pale  as  a  spare  adept. 

LXIX 

It  is  the  soul's  sleep,  while  the  body  moves, 
Smokes,  yawns,  and  communes  with  unwear- 
ied thought. 

One  feels  himself  alive,  and  yet  he  loves. 

Would  speak  of  loving  and  of  love  be  taught, 

And  with  small  effort  he  could  find  the  den — 

I  think  some  folly  has  bewitched  my  pen. 

LXX 

In  the  dark  hollow  of  some  wild  ravine, 
A  round  fat  peasant  rubs  his  heavy  paunch, 


82  NAMOUNA 

And  curling  close  to  sleep,  to  snore,  is  seen; 
And   toward   his   center   all   the   points   will 

branch. 

He  turns  to  ruminate? — to  snore  away  his  wine? 
Well,  sure,  whate'er  the  truth,  his  state's  divine. 

LXXI 

Go,  reader,  eastward  to  the  Holy  Land; 

Beneath  your  feet  some  happy  men  you  see, 
Old  smokers  sleeping  fast  on  wall  or  sand, 

Where  the  Jews'  city  one  time  used  to  be. 
These  men  can  die,  or  live,  nor  yet  complain, 
For  they  are  beggars  who  like  gods  remain. 

LXXII 

Seldom  they  speak,  all  sitting  on  the  ground, 
Naked,   in   rags,    their   heads    against    some 

steep, 
Their  pockets  empty — nothing,  not  a  sound; 

Call  you  a  dog  they  might,  so  let  them  sleep. 
Don't  crush  them;  they  would  ne'er  complain, 

protest ; 
Despise  them  not,  as  good  as  you  at  best. 

LXXIII 

The  first  point  in  Mahometanity, 
Stupidity  is  happiness.    Now  why 

Not  make  that  point  a  rule  for  Christianity? 
Those  who  deserve  are  many,  I  descry, 


NAMOUNA  83 

Who  all  would  happy  die,  suspecting  naught — 
Again  barbaric  phrase — again  I'm  caught. 

LXXIV 

They  say,  Mahometism,  I  regret; 

I  had  to  rise  to  find  my  dictionary; 
Before  I  looked,  the  verse  was  firmly  set; 

I  turned  about,  my  pen  had  slipped  from 

me, 

And  I  had  trod  upon  it,  and  in  rage 
Blew  out  the  taper  and  tore  up  the  page. 

LXXV 

You  see,  my  friend,  how  far  my  frankness  goes : 
My  hero  naked,  I,  I'm  in  my  shirt. 

I  tell  you  candidly  of  many  woes, 

Domestic  sorrows.    What  would  I  assert? 

I  really  think  me  like  a  man  accursed ; 

jiEneas  and  Anchises — I'm  the  first! 

LXXVI 

.ZEneas,  out  of  breath,  strode  straight  along; 

His  wife  was  ever  loitering,  falling  back. 
"  Creusa,"  said  he,  "  linger  not  so  long!  " 

She    answered,    "  Wait,    I    must    my    garter 

tack." 

"  Tie  it  and  tack  it.     Follow  quick,  my  dear; 
My  father,  old  Anchises,  fails,  I  fear." 


84  NAMOUNA 

LXXVII 

My  reader,  this  you  now  must  comprehend, 
Anchises  is  my  poem,  and  my  wife  Creuse, 

Who  lingers,  is  my  muse,  does  not  attend, 
Will  wander,  lose  me,  heedlessly  confuse, 

Stopped  by  pebble,  charmed  with  butterflies. 

Shall  we  arrive,  advancing  in  such  wise? 

LXXVIII 

jiEneas,  none  the  less,  has  need  of  wife 

Apart  from  her,  a  body  minus  soul ; 
Anchises  old  the  burden  of  his  life, 

While  reddening  flames  around  Troy's  ranir 

parts  roll. 

But  if  Anchises  groans,  Creusa  lags  behind; 
He  stops  to  gaze — what  man  could  be  more 
kind? 


SECOND   CANTO 

What  is  love  ?     The  exchange  of  two  fancies  and  the  con- 
tact of  two  epidennes. — CHAMFORT. 

I 

In  truth,  though  idiot  minds  may  contradict, 
When  one  is  poor,  it  pleases  one  to  write, 

Thereby  pass  time,  with  less  of  interdict 

Than  playing  cards ;  thus  saving  honor  bright. 

It  is  a  trade,  and,  after  all,  no  worse  than 

Kept  mistress,  lawyer,  or  a  coachman. 


85 


Verses  I  love,  as  the  immortal  tongue 
Of  spirit  utterance,  if  blasphemy, 

To  love  them  unto  madness,  said  or  sung. 
They  are  of  earth,  a  heavenly  alchemy; 

They  come  from  God  to  us,  by  love  begot. 

The  world  it  hears  them,  but  it  speaks  them  not. 

Ill 

You  know  it  well,  you  who  with  eager  face 
Assail  with  scalpel  every  living  thing ; 

You  take  your  poet  to  some  secret  place, 

To  hear  your  soul  with  his  sweet  music  ring. 

Like  tracing  tears  on  loved  one's  billet-doux, 

And  hear  her  voice  that  therein  speaks  to  you. 

IV 

Ah,  yes,  it  is  the  heart  which  speaks  and  sighs, 
Gives  meaning  to  the  words  the  hand  will 
write ; 

The  heart  alone  gives  worth  to  all  we  prize; 
If  we  would  move,  the  heart  must  still  indite. 

Carving  our  verses,  critics,  may  you  feel 

The  pleasure  they  assuredly  conceal. 

V 

What  matters  their  true  worth?     The  Muse  is 

fair 
For  madmen  even,  for  the  very  weak. 


86  NAMOUNA 

Would  we  her  power  to  bless  us  sure  ensnare? 

By  loving1  her  I  do  the  secret  speak. 
The  poet  is  in  heaven:  when  lifting  you, 
He  first  descends,  ere  you  can  mount  the  blue. 

VI 

Come  now,  fall  to,  unravel  distaff  skein! 

Puff,  puff,  to  swell  the  frog  into  an  ox! 
Before  you  read  and  cry,  "  This  I  maintain." 

The  mischief  analyze,  that  best  unlocks; 
And  in  the  future  unbelievers  must 
Seek  well  their  Christ  in  ancient  libr'ies'  dust. 

VII 

And  when  was  printed  book  aught  else,  or  more, 
Than    day-dream    told    within    an    instant's 
flight; 

A  bird  to  warble,  fly,  and  swiftly  soar; 

A  rose,  we  scent  its  sweetness,  far  from  sight; 

A  friend  we  meet  for  question  and  reply, 

Now  listening,  talking  now,  and  then  good-by? 

VIII 

To-day  for  instance,  I  have  ta'en  the  fit 

To  rhyme  the  story  which  you're  now  to  read. 

Shall  any  scoff  with  mockery  of  its  wit? 

Make  it  its  fault  when  verses  lame  proceed? 

You  tell  me  to  my  face  that  Byron  is 

My  model,  and  know  not  that  Pulchi  is. 


NAMOUNA  87 

IX 

Read  all  Italians  and  behold  him  steal. 

To  no  one  aught  belongs,  but  all  to  all. 
The  ignorant,  the  schoolmasters,  may  feel 

Self -flattery  when  they  run  about  to  bawl 
The  line  which  other  bards  could  not  invent. 
To  plant  a  cabbage  shows  a  mimic  bent ! 

X 

Laforet  never  learned  the  alphabet; 

What  lusty  knocks  his  name  has  always  dealt 
To  busy  rabbles  who  discuss  and  fret! 

Moliere  discovered  how  Laforet  felt. 
Contempt  of  human  kind  lay  in  his  grin 
At  new-born  persons  shaped  the  crowd  to  win. 

XI 

To  him  Moliere  read  not  the  new  Alceste. 

Had  I  drawn  him,  Laforet  should  have  heard. 
For  epigram  and  wit  he  had  no  zest; 

The  higher  strains  celestial  had  concurred 
To  thrill  his  heart;  from  Moliere's  heart  they 

came. 
The  twaddlers  get  the  leavings — such  my  aim. 

XII 

Why  is  it  lovers  wake  all  night  and  day? 

Why,  then,  should  poets  love  their  aches  and 
pains? 


88  NAMOUNA 

What  would  they  ask  to  have  for  ample  pay? 

One  tear,  O  Lord,  their  failing  heart  sustains; 
This  is  their  heaven ;  their  glory,  eloquence. 
Alike  are  genius  here  and  love  intense. 

XIII 

Canto  the  first  is  done.    I  have  reread, 
So  ill-explained  is  all  I  had  to  say; 

No  word  I  wrote  I  would  indeed  have  said, 
If  any  plan  had  shown  the  pen  the  way ; 

Vexation,  anger,  and  disgust  will  choke 

Me:  truth  is,  I  have  made  attempts  to  joke. 

XIV 

Two  roues  live  upon  this  patient  earth, 
One  fierce  as  Satan,  like  a  viper  cold, 

Audacious,  proud,  a  mimic  from  his  birth, 

A  heart  scarce  throbbing  'neath  a  bark-like 
fold. 

No  human  passion  seems  to  palpitate ; 

Beneath  a  sober  cloak  they  lie  in  wait. 

XV 

Loving  himself,  defiling  without  love 
His  victims,  wishing  ever  to  be  loved ; 

Watching  his  shadow  on  the  dial  move; 
Seeing  his  image  in  the  spring  unmoved, 

A  new  Narcissus,  seeing  his  cold  heart 

Mirrored  in  others'  pain  and  deadly  smart. 


NAMOUNA  89 

XVI 

His  god,  himself ;  all  that  he  does  or  says 

Is  adoration  to  his  Ego's  shrine. 
"Tis  to  himself  he  ever  sings  and  prays, 

And  thinks  that  others  think  him  half -divine. 
He  allows  the  world  around  himself  to  move, 
Its  arbiter,  whom  none  can  dare  reprove. 

XVII 

Lawsuits  nor  scandal  do  not  trouble  him; 

He  throws  damp  sheet  on  others'  hopes  of 

joy; 

The  world  must  humor  every  passing  whim, 

And  every  mistress  is  a  passing  toy. 
He  feeds  on  virtue,  and  then  calls  it  "  jade  "; 
Deception  and  seduction  are  his  trade. 

XVIII 

None  has  discovered  that  small  thing,  his  soul; 

He  spends  his  life  to  hide  its  inwardness. 
He  laughs,  and  weeps,  the  sands  of  life  unroll 

What's  left  of  him,  but  women  in  distress, 
A  costly  jewel  such  as  soldiers  have, 
A  wooden  cross  upon  a  nameless  grave. 

XIX 

But  all  is  hushed  when  he  appears  in  state. 
Clarissa  blushes,  and  would  fain  delay. 


90  NAMOUNA 

How  handsome  and  how  brilliant!  all  en  fete, 

But  cruel  if  he  can  not  have  his  way. 
He'll  speak  of  suicide;  show  gun  or  rope. 
Clarissa  yields  to  save  this  misanthrope. 

XX 

0  heartless  profligate!  O  specter  double-faced, 
With  tiger's  jaws  and  vulture's  talons  grim! 

Feeding  on  flesh  not  heretofore  disgraced, 

Disdaining  those  who  have  no  love  for  him, 
Saying  to  mankind,  I  will  go  the  pace, 
And  would  be  Cassar,  were  he  not  Lovelace! 

XXI 

Ask  him  not  if  he  finds  happiness. 

He  knows  it  not;  he  is  what  he  should  be. 
He  dies  in  silence ;  not  one  fond  caress 

To  bid  Godspeed  into  eternity. 

1  vow  some  brutes  more  tender  are  withal 
Than    our    Don    Juan,    this    ravenous    human 

jackal! 

XXII 

Yet  in  biography  this  shining  star 

Students  will  study  with  their  burning  eyes; 
The  critic  Robertson  will  have  a  scar, 

And  give  his  book  to  children  as  a  prize. 
His  crimes  will  blacken  many  a  lurid  page, 
And  burn  the  hearts  of  many  an  after  age. 


NAMOUNA  91 

XXIII 

Thus  this  French  profligate  is  still  more  lewd 
Than  the  cheap  lovers  of  the  poor  quartier, 

Carousing  everywhere,  to  find  wine  good, 
Using  his  riches  as  a  golden  snare. 

Lecturing  his  father,  calling  him  a  fool, 

Such  is  this  graduate  from  Vice's  school. 

XXIV 

Such  is  his  vanity,  there's  one  more  great, 

More  musical  than  Mozart  ever  dreamed, 
More  handsome  than  Beau  Brummell,  on  whose 

pate 

The  crown  of  dandyism  brightly  gleamed. 
Such  is  the  portrait,  that  he  did  not  finish, 
Whom    Shakespeare    in    our    day    would    not 
diminish. 

XXV 

The  second  sits  in  meadow  grasses  deep, 
Thoughtful  as  love,  handsome  as  genius  is; 

His  mistress  near  him  has  just  gone  to  sleep; 
Just  twenty,  his  young  heart  has  felt  the  kiss 

Of  love — fruit  of  the  tree  of  life  abloom. 

Must  he,  like  Christ,  while  loving,  suffer  doom? 

XXVI 

And  there  he  is,  bathed  in  a  woman's  tears, 
Facing  sweet  nature  fair  as  he  is  fair. 


92  NAMOUNA 

Feasting  on  love,  with  strange  ecstatic  fears, 

For  life  and  love  are  fiercely  clasping  there. 
The  happy  girl,  she  lives  for  him  alone, 
As  clings  the  ivy  to  supporting  stone. 

XXVII 

There  he  is  asking  why  his  heart  replies 
With  tears  to  every  thought,  or  fond  desire. 

Fondling  his  mistress,  to  her  wish  complies, 
Warming  her  heart  with  love's  divinest  fire. 

He  would  give  gold  to  those  that  weep  and 
moan, 

For  in  their  happiness  he  sees  his  own. 

XXVIII 

So  young  and  handsome  'neath  a  sky  of  fame, 
At  twenty  rich  as  miser  with  his  hoard, 

With  heart  of  hope  to  win  a  splendid  name, 
Beloved  by  all,  an  open-hearted  lord, 

Candid  and  fresh,  his  young Jieart  like  a  flower, 

Where'er  bestowed,  is  maiden's  richest  dower. 

XXIX 

So  is  he  now;  divine  what  he  will  be; 

What  fate  can  be  foretold  for  fortune's  child? 
Love  swears  to  be  eternal;  destiny 

May  interfere  and  drive  on  breakers  wild. 
But  poetry,  meantime,  in  golden  rhyme 
Sings  of  his  golden  hair  in  tones  sublime. 


NAMOUNA  93 

XXX 

The  palace  his;  the  serf,  the  champaign  wide 
Are  his;  the  forest,  stream,  and  mountain  blue 

Have  kept  the  name  while  up  the  echo  hied ; 
The  hamlet  his,  with  flock  of  pallid  hue; 

The  monks,  and  should  he  pass  that  village  dim, 

An  angel,  rising,  hastes  to  go  with  him. 

XXXI 

Four  daughters  of  a  prince  repeat  his  name ; 

And  if  for  mistress  he  desired  a  queen, 
Three  palaces  or  more  he  could  then  claim; 

A  Jew  turned  bald,  who  had  his  pleasures  seen! 
No  loss  could  man  detect  if  he  should  fling 
His  harvests  to  the  birds  by  wayside  spring. 

XXXII 

The  man,  in  taverns,  loves  the  clam'rous  din 
Of  charcoal-burners  seated  by  the  stoves; 

The  dust  will  blacken  beard  and  brows  and  skin, 
And   trembling,   eyes   with  luster   spent,   he 
roves, 

And  rolls  beneath  the  street-lamp's  glare, 

Cloak  torn,  face  bloody,  elbows  black  or  tan. 

XXXIII 

Behold  him  jump  upon  the  golden  stair, 
Some  den  to  seek  when  boudoir  he  has  left, 


94  NAMOUNA 

To  kiss  with  ardent  love  some  strumpet's  hair. 

Before  Elvira,  weeping,  heart  bereft, 
Straining  her  eyes  to  see  the  truant  thief, 
Has  ceased  to  wave  her  lamp  and  handkerchief. 

XXXIV 

Now  catch  him,  lackey  to  a  chambermaid; 

He  hides,  a  shivering  lackey,  'neath  his  frill; 
Now  watch  him,  strong,  cold,  calm,  and  staid, 

Fling  down  a  father  in  the  gutter's  chill, 
And  leave  the  old  man  and  those  stains  of  blood ; 
The  daughter,  stained,  becomes  a  monster's  food. 

XXXV 

What  say  you  then?     Perhaps  you  had  believed 
The  world  had  dealt  some  wound — the  heart  is 

proud ; 
That  here  we  have  a  Lara  still  deceived, 

And  that  this  man,  more  worthy  than  the 

crowd, 

Discerned  that  aspiration  all  was  vain, 
And  as  its  hate  met  hate,  disdain,  disdain. 

XXXVI 

Your  error,  sir.    No  person  ever  breathed 
That  less  supposed  himself  oblivion's  prey; 

He    never   knocked    but   she    with    smiles    was 

wreathed, 
Has  never  felt  inconstancy's  full  sway, 


NAMOUNA  95 

Has  never  seen  that  serpent  where  he  trod, 
The  long-lived  serpent,  friendship  false  to  God. 

XXXVII 

What   now?     Such   as  he   is,   the  world's  his 
friend ; 

He  loses  not  his  property  or  rank; 
He  sits  'fore  God,  while  all  look  on,  commend; 

No  one  but  sees  how  deep  in  sin  he  sank. 
His  genius  known,  his  famous  words  they  con; 
But  wait,  the  fellow  bears  a  name — Don  Juan. 

XXXVIII 

Don  Juan,  the  name  resounds  within  my  mouth; 

Mysterious  name,  that  takes  the  universe, 
Not  understood,  but  spoken  North  and  South; 

The  greatest  poets  oft  the  name  rehearse, 
Keep  it  in  mind  and  meditation  late ; 
Make  bird  thereof  and  seem  to  grow  more  great. 

XXXIX 

Absurd  am  I!    What  am  I  doing  now? 

Was  it  my  turn  to  speak  to  them  of  thee? 
Great  shade !    Canst  tell  me  whence  thou  comest, 
and  how? 

With  all  their  blasphemies  and  truths  you  see 
Not  one  but  liked  thee,  and  I  too  could  sing, 
As  good  Blondel  when  rescuing  his  king. 


96  NAMOUNA 

XL 

Oh,  who  will  fling  me  on  thy  courser  dun? 

Oh,  who  will  lend  the  enchanted  mantle's  aid,* 
To  follow  thee  and  weep,  corrupting  one! 

Unroll  that  list  with  murder  foul  o'erlaid, 
That  list  of  loves  so  full  and  yet  so  bare, 
Which  thy  hand  peopled  with  forgotten  fair. 

XLI 

Three  thousand  charming  names,  all  feminine! 
Not  one  thou  hast  not  murmured,  shedding 

tears ! 
That  fire  of  love  consuming,  not  divine, 

Which   at   thy   death   thy   veins   destroying, 

sears ; 

Thy  soul,  forgotten  angel,  seeks  to  rise 
On  wings  too  weak  to  mount  unto  the  skies. 

XLII 

And  yet  they  loved  you,  all  those  silly  girls ; 

Upon  a  heart  like  flint  you  pressed  them  then ; 
The  wind  which  took  you  thence  around  them 

whirls, 
And  yet  they  loved  Don  Juan,  the  worst  of 

men, 

And  planted  kisses  on  this  love,  a  breath 
For  him  this  life — for  them  a  wretched  death. 

*  Mephisto  and  Faust  traveling  in  a  magic  cloak. 


NAMOUNA  97 

XLIII 

But  you,  vile  specter,  what  did  you  with  them? 

Ah,  massacre  and  horror !  you  loved  too, 
Expecting  ever  some  fresh  sun  to  gem 

New  lives  when  weary  nights  your  love  out- 
grew, 
At    evening    saying,    "  Now,    perchance,    'twill 

beam  " — 
Old  man,  awaiting,  watching  for  day's  gleam. 

XLIV 

Asking  of  forests,  and  of  seas  and  plain, 
The  morning  breezes,  every  hour  and  place, 

The  woman  of  thy  soul  to  still  the  pain! 

Thy  earliest  wish,  a  dream,  a  shadowy  face, 

And  digging  through  a  human  hecatomb, 

Despairing  priest!  nor  find  thy  goddess'  home. 

«• 

XLV 

And  what  your  meaning?     This  the  world  can 

ask, 
Although  three  hundred  years  have  run  the 

round. 

The  sphinx  with  piercing  eyes  is  at  the  task; 
Those  eyes  can  count  the  time,  and  earth  can 

sound ; 

They  move,  their  compass  in  the  sky  extends, 
But  of  your  meaning  no  man  comprehends. 


98  NAMOUNA 

XL  VI 

Where  then,  they  ask,  that  woman  all  unknown, 
Who  only  could  have  checked  his  courser's 

vein? 

She  whom  he  called,  who  came  not,  lurked  alone  ? 
Where  had  he  found,  when  lost,  and  why  com- 
plain? 

What  knot  of  power  to  bind  them  fast,  and  set 
His  mind  so  firmly  where  most  men  forget? 

XL  VII 

Was  there  not  one,  a  nobler,  finer  far 

Among  the  beauties,  who  in  certain  way 
Possessed  some  feature  of  his  shadowy  star? 
Why  should  he  not  keep  her?    Which  one,  you 

say? 

They  all  resembled,  but  'twas  never  she; 
Don  Juan  looked  on,  "  She's  like  " — away  was 
he! 

XLVIII 

Untired  you  scour  the  earth,  both  tower  and 

town! 

The  phantom  vain,  God  sent  to  be  with  you, 
Your   foot   not  yet   has   gained   nor   trampled 

down! 

You  are  no  eagle,  soaring  in  the  blue, 
Unfed,  nor  like  the  bolt  of  thunder  loud, 
Which  strikes  not,  hiding  in  its  angry  cloud. 


NAMOUNA  99 

XLIX 

Say,  have  you  slandered  this  most  stupid  world, 
Which  stared  at  you  with  its  dull,  frenzied 
eyes, 

And  seen  deformity  for  beauty  hurled 
Adown  the  mountain  climbing  to  the  skies? 

If  so,  you  are  forgiven,  if  e'er  you  suck 

The  fruits  of  grim  reality  you  plucked. 


The  blue-eyed  maiden  on  the  ottoman 

Fondles  you  sweetly  in  her  perfumed  arms; 

From  princess  to  the  peasant-girl  you  ran, 
Despised  nothing  in  the  way  of  charms; 

Dwelling  with  courtesans,  I  heard  them  tell, 

Seeking  a  diamond  in  a  muddy  well. 

LI 

You  ran  through  Paris,  Naples,  and  Madrid, 
Running  from  palace  to  the  vilest  slums, 

Despising  money,  traveling  where  bid, 
To  feast  on  women;  eat  the  juicy  plums 

That  grow  upon  the  branches  of  desire, 

And  feel  the  heat  of  lust-consuming  fire. 

LII 

Ever  you  found  the  hideous  truth  inwrought 
With  floral  garlands  and  deep-burning  vows; 


100  NAMOUNA 

Everywhere,  with  the  eternal  hydra  fought, 
Of  passion,  that  no  breathing  space  allows. 
You  see  the  raging  sea  beneath  your  feet, 
And  think  your  pearl  is  there ;  that  it  is  sweet. 

LIII 

You  died  in  hope  your  love,  so  infinite, 

Would  leave  no  trace  on  earth  of  tears  and 
blood. 

Your  barren  love  fought  forces  recondite, 
Vaster  than  heaven  and  no  more  understood. 

You  lost  your  beauty,  youth,  and  genius  too, 

Seeking  th 'impossible  that  nowhere  grew. 

LIV 

One  day  there  came  to  you  a  dreadful  guest, 
And  as  you  grasped  his  cold,  extended  hand, 

You  fell  exhausted  at  your  ample  feast, 

And  straightway  sought  old  Charon's  grisly 
strand. 

No  longer  will  you  raise  your  brimming  cup, 

And  drink  to  beauty,  for  your  game  is  up. 

LV 

And  now,  dear  reader,  you  can  recognize 
Unto  what  depths  unfathomable  descend 

Those  dreamers  big  with  love's,  or  lust's,  em- 
prise. 
I'll  say  one  word,  and  then  you'll  comprehend; 


NAMOUNA  IQl 

What  Don  Juan  loved,  Hassan  would  wildly 

win. 
What  Don  Juan  sought,  Hassan  believed  not  in. 


THIRD    CANTO 

Where  go  I  ?     Where  am  I  ? — French  Classics. 

I 

I  swear  before  high  Heaven,  my  only  wish 

Was  but  to  tell  a  story  of  two  loves. 
The  subject  of  this  tale,  my  only  dish, 

To  please  the  reader  who  likes  turtle-doves. 
I've  let  my  pen  run  on,  upon  his  life, 
Wishing  to  capture  dreams  out  of  the  hero's 
strife. 

II 

Here  you  will  recognize  my  worthy  chief, 
My  wild  Byronic  ravings  on  the  table, 

At  once  too  prosy,  rambling,  and  too  brief, 
The  poem  and  the  plan,  the  hero  and  the  fable. 

But  all  go  wrong,  and  thus  the  reader  saw 

A  dish  cooked  on  one  side,  on  t'other,  raw. 

Ill 

The  drama,  truly,  it  is  not  my  bent ; 

I  want  to  know  what  figure  I'd  make  there, 


102  NAMOUNA 

And  in  what  manner  I  might  pitch  my  tent, 
When  I  have  seen  so  many  failures,  where 
Veterans  and  princes,  raised  by  lofty  thought, 
Have  fallen  in  failure  where  they  glory  sought. 

IV 

My  friends  advise  me  now  to  end  the  lay, 
To  cut  the  chords  of  my  resounding  lyre, 

Send  Hassan  and  Namouna  to  make  hay; 
But  still  the  story  lives,  and  I'm  no  liar. 

Since  in  its  place  I  can  not  write  it  down, 

I'll  tell  it,  and  electrify  the  town. 


A  youthful  Mussulman  a  mania  had 

Of  buying,  every  month,  two  girls  enslaved. 
Three  times  he  would  embrace  them — this  his 

fad- 
Then  set  them  free  ere  they  were  more  de- 
praved. 

Free  from  all  chain,  and  with  a  purse  well-lined, 
Then  he'd  buy  others,  as  he  felt  inclined. 

VI 

Now,  then,  it  happened  that  a  fair  young  maid 
Was  stolen  at  Cadiz  from  a  merchant  rich; 

Abducted  by  a  pirate,  who  made  trade 

In  slaves  of  gentle  blood  and  beauty,  which 

Would  pay  the  risk  of  an  impeding  chase, 

And  yield  high  profits  in  the  market-place. 


NAMOUNA  103 

VII 

Hassan  loved  Spanish  maidens  all  his  life; 
Though  this  one  charmed  him  greatly,  he'd  no 

thought 
To  take  so  sweet  a  maiden  as  his  wife. 

He  blandly  told  her  that  she  had  been  bought 
For  pleasure  only;  but  he'd  set  her  free, 
That   she  might  once  more  her  dear  country 
see. 

VIII 

She  let  him  do  his  will,  prepared  to  go ; 

But   the    poor    girl    at    heart    was   wounded 

sore. 
'  Why  should  you  banish  me,  why  wound  me 

so?" 

Thus,  loving  him,  she  did  her  lord  implore: 
"Say  what  the  matter  is,  my  heart  is  thine; 
Is  your  heart  nothing,  having  taken  mine?  " 


IX 

She  sought  the  port,  in  silence  sat  her  down, 
Holding  her  little  bag,  but  could  not  speak; 

But  when  she  felt  upon  the  ocean's  crown 
The  vessel  move,  the  mighty  masts  to  creak, 

Her  heart  grew  faint,  and  at  the  wild  waves' 
leap, 

She  lowered  her  veil  and  then  began  to  weep. 


104  NAMOUNA 

X 

It  happened,  then,  that  six  young  Africans 
Entered  a  market,  with  their  arms  in  chains; 

On  silken  carpets  of  the  caravans 

They  lay  at  ease  after  their  journey's  pains. 

The  crowds  surge  round  to  see  the  cages  filled 

With  bartered  flesh,  awake  or  slumber-stilled. 

XI 

By  double  chance  Hassan  appeared  in  view; 

Namouna  rose  from  out  that  sweltering  lair ; 
"I'm  fair,"  said  she  unto  the  grasping  Jew, 

"  Sell  me  for  something  dearer,  with  false  hair. 
And  as  I  wish  not  to  be  recognized, 
Paint  thou  my  face,  and  I'll  be  doubly  prized." 

XII 

The  Jew  was  gracious,  for  he  painted  her, 

And    even    changed    her    bright    but    scanty 
clothes. 

"  Now  sell  me,"  said  she,  proud  as  Lucifer, 
To  think  she'd  find  a  rest  for  all  her  woes. 

Again  she  shook  her  chains  within  the  cage, 

Hoping  that  Hassan's  soul  she  would  engage. 

XIII 

She  conquers  that  fell  ravisher  of  hearts; 

Hassan  redeemed  Namouna  with  his  gold. 
Then  from  the  golden  cage  she  swift  departs; 

As  Hassan's  slave  once  more  has  she  been  sold, 


NAMOUNA  105 

And  that  sweet  night  on  Hassan's  couch  she  lay, 
In  recompense  for  all  her  misery. 

XIV 

"  Thy  flesh  is  whiter  than  a  Nubian  slave, 
Thy  form  more  graceful  than  some  women's 

are; 

Thy  soul  is  subtle,  from  some  distant  grave 
Namouna  has  arisen  like  a  star. 
Art  thou  that  mistress  I  embraced  of  yore?  " 
Said  Hassan  wildly.     "  Answer,  I  implore ! " 

XV 

"  I  am  indeed  Namouna,"  said  the  girl; 

"  I  loved  you,  and  returned  to  meet  my  fate. 
I  joined  the  slaves  owned  by  a  Jewish  churl, 

That  chance  would  make  me  once  again  thy 

mate. 

Then  pardon  my  disguise,  for,  loving  thee, 
I  must  be  thine,  or  leap  into  the  sea! " 

XVI 

Hassan  was  pleased  to  find  his  slave  again, 
And  felt  indeed  that  woman  has  a  soul, 

Adventurous,  subtle,  and  that  turns  amain 
The  destiny  he  would  alone  control. 

Self-love  is  poor,  and  if  we  love  no  other, 

We  bear  a  loss  from  which  we  can't  recover. 
DECEMBER,  1832. 


DON  PAEZ 


I  had  been  happy,  if  the  general  camp, 
Pioneers  and  all,  had  tasted  her  sweet  body, 
So  I  had  nothing  known. — OTHELLO. 

I  NEVER  liked  those  prudes,  I  must  confess, 
Who  would  not  to  the  Prado  go  alone, 
Whom  a  duenna,  as  they  move  along, 
Follows  as  muleteer  his  ambling  mule. 
They  wear  their  knees  and  lips  in  many  prayers, 
And  on  the  stone  more  pale,  in  their  distress, 
Than  if  they  trod  on  snake  with  naked  foot, 
Or  murderer  with  noose  around  his  neck. 
Indeed,  these  women,  living  such  a  life, 
Bear  hearts  bereft  of  all  noble  aim — 
Have  neither  heart  not  entrails.    But  I  swear 
Both  on  my  head  and  bones,  and  will  confess, 
They're  worth  five  times  as  much  as  intrigantes 
Whose  time  is  spent  in  balls  and  rendezvous, 
Who  shrewdly  hide  in  muff  a  billet-doux, 
Who  tie  a  ribbon  round  a  willowy  waist, 
Or  throw  a  silken  ladder  from  a  balcony, 
Or  follow  the  imbroglios  of  wild  loves, 
That,  like  mushrooms,  grow  in  a  single  night; 
And  yet  so  charming!    'Tis  a  madness  born 

106 


DON    PAEZ  107 

Of  two  dark  eyes  and  but  a  slender  waist; 
A  fierce  mustache,  a  waltz  or  sugar-plum, 
But,  oh;  the  bitterness  of  after- fate, 
For  in  their  nets  fall  many  a  noble  heart. 
Better  for  such  that,  like  a  statue  cold, 
He  pressed  a  marble  sweetheart  in  his  arms, 
To  warm  the  stone  with  kisses;  better  far 
To  meet  a  famished  wolf  in  forest  wild, 
Than  be  a  victim  of  disordered  love. 
To  prove  my  statement,  I  will  tell  a  tale, 
And  so  without  preamble  will  begin. 
One  day  in  summer,  'twas  in  gay  Madrid, 
If  you  had  strolled  in  early  morning  hours 
In  San  Bernardo  Square,  you  would  espy 
A  crimson  lattice  of  a  stately  house, 
And    if   your    brain    by    curious    thought    was 

moved, 

You  might  have  gazed  therein  and  seen 
A  spacious  chamber  with  rich  furniture, 
Gold  candelabras  shedding  softest  light, 
Carpets  and  hangings,  decorated  walls, 
A  table  with  the  remnants  of  a  feast  thereon, 
Wines,  many  bottles,  and  a  mandolin 
That  seemed  vibrating,  for  'twas  lately  played, 
Just  like  a  woman's  bosom  that  vibrates 
After  the  giddy  dance.     The  household  slept. 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  its  tender  light 
Gilded  the  trefoil  on  the  Spanish  arms, 
Touched  the  pale  velvets  of  an  upper  room, 
Mingled  its  silver  rays  with  golden  flames 


108  DON    PAEZ 

That  lit  a  chamber  in  whose  dull  recess 
Where  on  a  bed  of  rose  and  amber  wood, 
Had  you  looked  sharply,  reader,  you  could  see 
A  tiny  foot  thrust  out  beneath  the  coverlet. 
I  grant  you,  Spain  is  vast,  her  women  fair, 
But  you  might  search  her  lordly  homes  in  vain, 
Cities  and  villages  without  success, 
To  find  a  foot  to  match  this  peerless  one. 
So  small  was  it,  that  e'en  a  child  could  take 
This  apparition  in  its  two  small  hands. 
Reader,  be  not  surprised  if  I  should  say 
The  lady  who  possessed  it  was  more  beautiful 
Than  poets'  dreams.    She  had  an  oval  face, 
Sculptured  like  Venus;  with  creamy  skin, 
Two  eyes  of  midnight  blackness,  raven  hair, 
An  Andalusian  body,  long  and  slim, 
A  radiant  countess  who  was  born  to  love. 
The  open  curtains  round  the  beauty's  couch 
Revealed  her  swooning  in  her  lover's  arms. 
Moist  eyes,  and  arms  inert,  in  her  all  breathed 
Love's  languor,  fairer  made  her  face  appear. 
Rolled  in  her  hair  were  head  and  heaving  breast, 
While  on  her  body  many  a  trace  of  fire, 
And  purpled  cheeks,  and  dry  and  parched  lips 
That  pressed  each  other  still  with  empty  kiss, 
And  big  with  love  her  heart,  not  failing,  tired, 
Revealed  the  madness  of  fierce  passion's  night. 
Near  by  her,  lover's  eyes  caress  and  seek 
The  living  eye  his  tender  mistress  bends 
On  him.    Ardent  his  amorous  mouth, 


DON    PAEZ  109 

And  rendered  kiss  for  every  bursting  sob. 
So  sped  the  time,  while  on  the  street  the  light 
Of    morning,    whitening,    came   to    break    the 

gloom, 
And    sounds    were    heard    from    convent-bells 

swung  slow. 

The  listening  youth  was  up  with  one  swift  leap, 
Had  put  his  hand  on  cloak,  then  on  his  sword ; 
Beholding  then  his  beauty  drowned  in  tears, 
"  Come,  dearest,  kiss  me  once,  and  say  good-by!  " 
"  Already! "  "  Bah!  I  mean  to  come,  my  sweet, 
To-morrow,  at  the  stroke  of  noon.    Adieu! " 
"  Don  Paez!  she  is  sure  a  happy  girl, 
The  gay  one  for  whose  side  you  hasten  now." 
'  You  know,  you  naughty  girl,  the  castle  waits. 
The  gay  one  waiting  is  my  sentry-turn." 
''  Then  why  so  early  hasten  to  your  round? 
Some  fearful  oath  it  is  that  binds  you  fast!  " 
"  One  kiss  upon  your  dainty  foot!    I  go! " — 
"  One  moment,  now,  a  bed  of  rosewood  carved, 
And  flowers,  a  mistress  in  an  alcove  snug, 
All  that  counts  nothing,  ah,  my  cavalier, 
Against  a  sentry-box  beside  a  wall! " — 
"  How  fair  that  shoulder!   Oh,  my  darling  fay! 
One  more  sweet  kiss! "     "  Oh,  how  I  am  be- 
fooled 

By  you,  a  shabby  boy!  "    "  My  heart,  good-by! 
And  now  give  up  that  silly  pouting  mood. 
To-morrow  we  have  holiday.    A  ride, 
A  promenade?"     "  The  English  mare  is  sick." 


110  DON   PAEZ 

"  Good-by,  and  may  the  devil  take  the  mare!  " 
"  Don  Paez,  love,  another  moment  stay! " 
"  My  charmer  wants  to  pick  a  quarrel  now? 
Ah,  could  I  touzle  all  that  hair  so  well 
That  all  to-morrow  you  would  comb  in  vain !  " 
"Go!    Leave  me,  wretch !"    "  Adieu,  my  love !" 
His  mantle  drawn  about  his  face  and  mouth, 
Away  he  went.    The  morn  had  grown  apace. 
Along  the  streets  he  strode,  his  golden  spurs 
Made  clattering  noise  which  quickly  came  and 

went. 

Oh,  in  that  season  prime  of  verdant  strength, 
When  our  hot  youth,  a  sturdy,  growing  tree, 
On  all  throws  shadows,  road  and  horizon, 
Happy  that  man  whose  hand  may  touch  and  pat 
The  neck  of  some  swift  stallion,  or  caress 
A  doting  mistress  and  her  glittering  breast. 

II 

Don  Paez,  all  armed  at  the  arsenal, 

In  silence  marches  out  behind  the  forts; 

You  see  a  dot  no  more.    He  smokes  and  smokes 

En  route  from  hour  to  hour;  when  trumpets 

sound, 

His  answer  mingles  with  the  challenge  wild 
Which  troopers,  coated  gray,  go  shouting  round. 
Near  by,  companions  warlike,  here  and  there, 
Are  sleeping,  muffled  in  their  mantle  folds, 
And  some  at  dice,  talk  loud  and  brag  of  love 


DON   PAEZ  111 

And  wine  too  much,  and  many  a  jest  profane 
Is  heard.    Here  one,  while  reeling,  tries  to  tell 
Some  vicious  tale  about  an  honest  girl; 
Another  head  on  board  would  hum  a  tune, 
Another  lifts  the  dice  with  eyes  askance, 
And  with  a  throw  amiss  he  grits  his  teeth; 
While  now,   a  man  back  flings  his   drooping 

plume, 

Talks  big  and  strong  with  curses,  while  he  pulls 
His  reddening  beard,  sharp  cut,  a  crescent  shape, 
And  pouring,  wrist  a-tremble,  drinks  and  drinks 
The  king's  good  health  like  some  fat  chorister. 
A  tallow  candle  in  a  corner  drips 
And  totters  when  the  fists  and  table  meet. 
Loud  are  the  brawlings  and  the  insults  fierce 
And  bravos  greeting  wagers  made  and  lost, 
When  one  speaks  out,  "  The  king's  brave  men 

are  you, 

Brave  volunteers  and  cavaliers,  and  I 
Pronounce  him  coward,  knave,  and  traitor  thrice 
That  will  not  claim,  proclaim,  and  recognize 
That  in  this  cursed  land,  from  Burgos  south, 
The  fairest  maid  is  Dona  Cazalez, 
Of  gay  Seville,  and  she  my  mistress  is." 
These  words,  thus  spoken,  raised  a  frightful  din, 
And  every  convent  window  shook  again. 
Not  one  but  bragged  of  many  gallant  feats; 
Not  one  but  gabbled  of  a  woman's  lip; 
She  had  a  foot,  or  else  a  pair  of  eyes; 
A  waist  incomparable,  or  glossy  hair. 


112  .     DON    PAEZ 

Don  Paez  then  erect  and  silent  watched 
And  smiled,  for  with  infatuated  heart, 
As  ne'er  could  keep  his  eyelids  closed  without 
His  mistress'  image  seen,  black-eyed  and  fair. 
"  Messieurs,"  cried  out  the  first,  our  red  mus- 
tache, 

"  The  little  Inez  has  the  softest  skin 
Whereon  so  far  I've  rubbed  it  with  this  beard !  " 
"  Sir,"  quoth  a  neighbor,  lowering  to  a  frown, 
"  You  know  not  Arabella;  she  is  dark 
As  jet."    "  And  as  for  me,  I  can't  cite  one." 
Cried   out   another,   "  Three  there   be."      "  My 

boys," 

Said  yellow  horseman  from  a  bed  of  hay, 
"  You  break  my  sleep.     My  dream  was  of  my 

girl!" 
"  And   sure,   my   little   bawd,"   they   answered, 

"who?" 

The  fellow  yawning,  says,  "  Orvado  'tis; 
My  Juana,  she  in  San  Bernardo  lives." 
Don  Paez  heard ;  it  was  God's  hand,  we  think ; 
A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  bit  his  lip. 
"  Imprudent  words  let  loose,  my  cavalier! 
I  say  you  are  a  liar  in  your  teeth! 
Your  Juana  of  Orvado  has  one  man, 
One  master.    Look  on  me — you  wish  to  know!  " 
"  There's  some  mistake,  it  seems,  "  the  horseman 

cries. 

"  Who's  wrong?     She's  mine,  this  countess  who 
is  yours! " 


DON    PAEZ  113 

"You,"  shouted  Paez,  "stable  blunderbuss! 
Do  you  draw  sword,  or  must  we  ask  you  to? 
She  yours,  you  say,  Don  Etur;  know  you  not 
That  like  a  dog  her  shadow  I  pursue? 
What  I  have  done,  think  you  it  could  be  done 
By  that  faint  courage  marked  upon  your  face, 
When  I  am  bleeding  still  with  sufferings 
Which  leave  a  pallor  spread  upon  my  brow? " 
"  No,  no!    But  yet  I  say  the  serenades 
And  flowers  have  cost  me  hundreds  of  gold 

coin." 

"  Brother,  thy  tongue  is  fresh  and  quick  at  lies." 
"  My  hand  also  is  quick,  and  rough  to  feel." 
"  Then  let  me  feel  it.    Have  a  care  that  mouth 
Ope  not  again,  or  I  may  cork  it  tight 
With  poniard,  traitor,  that  it  may  drive  back 
Hell's  foulest  falsehoods  that  will  strive  to  pass." 
"  Ho!    He  who  prates  with  all  this  arrogance 
Must,  in  default  of  right,  maintain  his  cause. 
And  when  have  we  the  fair  one  seen?     Last 

night?  " 
"  This  morning? " 

"  Certain  your  lip 

Has  not  so  soon  the  trace  of  kisses  lost?  " 
"  To  you  I  come  to  spit  them  in  your  face!  " 
"  And  here,"  said  Etur,  "  is  a  thing  unknown," 
As,  with  the  word,  he  bared  and  showed  his 

breast. 

Don  Paez  saw  upon  his  heart  a  lock 
Of  hair,  back  folded  'neath  the  locket's  glass; 


114  DON    PAEZ 

But  when  his  glance,  more  terrible  and  fleet 
Than  speeding  arrow  reached  that  gift  of  dread, 
Swift  he  recoiled  in  anguish  and  in  hate, 
As  in  the  arena,  stung  with  spears,  the  bull. 
'  Young   man,"   he   shouted,    "  have   you   any- 
where 

A  wife  or  mother?    Do  you  trust  in  God? 
Swear,  by  your  God,  by  mother  or  by  wife, 
By  aD  you  fear,  by  all  your  soul  may  have 
Of  purity,  sincere  and  generous  faith, 
An  oath,  that  lock  of  hair  is  yours,  and  yours 

alone ; 

That  by  no  theft  it's  from  my  mistress  taken ; 
Not  found,  not  cut  away  in  church,  at  mass! " 
"  I  swear!  "  he  cried,  "  by  pipe  and  poniard  too." 
:'  Then  good,"  he  answered,  taking  him  aside. 
"  Come  here,  I  grant  you  have  a  valiant  soul ; 
Valor  enough  have  you   to   strike  the  woman 

down? " 

"  Brother,"  said  Etur,  "  thrice  enough  I  have 
To  give  full  payment  to  all  broken  oaths." 
'  You  see  that  one  of  us  must  die — 'tis  fate. 
Then  swear  we  must  that  he  who  lives  one  hour 
And  sees  the  sun  to-morrow  morning  rise, 
Shall  slay  Juana  d'Orvado !  "    "  Be  it  done !  " 
The  horseman  cried.    "  She  dies!  for  truth 
Is  it,  she  is  the  cause  of  one  man's  death." 
No  wish,  or  talk,  or  further  discourse  bent, 
He   spoke   this   word   and   brandished   dagger 
drawn. 


DON    PAEZ  115 

As  oft  in  summer,  in  the  grass  new-mown, 
We  see  two  wolves  that  stir  the  drying  leaves, 
Stop  face  to  face  and  stand  them  tooth  to  tooth, 
Rage  drives  them  on,  and  for  the  while  they  turn 
In  circles  moving  round,  and  each  the  other  waits, 
Their  thin  swords  quivering  near  and  near, 
The  rivals  scowl  with  grimly  piercing  looks, 
Meet  on  the  rampart's  edge,  and  crossing  blades, 
Begin  in  fury  deadliest  assault. 
A  murderous  flash  oft  lightens  from  the  steel, 
The  while,  by  gleams  of  torches  flickering, 
All  stand  and  watch  the  uncertain  tricks  of  fate. 
They,  mute,  and  gasping  onward  to  their  death, 
Attack  and  push,  and  prompt  to  parry,  thrust, 
With  taunts  as  fierce  as  clashing  of  the  steel. 
Hot-blooded  Etur  slashes  right  and  left, 
But  Paez,  far  more  cool,  keeps  parrying, 
Even  as  a  cormorant  fighting  with  its  wing ; 
He  held  himself  behind  his  trusty  sword, 
The  wall  a  strength,  and  one  could  surely  say 
He  found  a  friend  in  somber  gothic  wall, 
Where  lantern  lights  fantastic  convent  stone. 
He  waits,  and  Etur,  now,  with  bounding  foot, 
Like  young  jaguar  he  leaps  upon  his  foe. 
Then  leisurely  he  touches  him,  and  jeers, 
As  though  to  make  him  leave  the  parapet. 
The  fight  was  long.     For  more  than  one  lost 

thrust, 

Another  gained  its  mark  and  was  returned. 
Soon  from  their  armor  oozed  a  bloody  sweat 


116  DON   PAEZ 

From  serious  wounds,  and  still  the  fight  went  on. 

Seeing  no  chance  of  respite  in  the  fray, 

Don  Paez  spoke:  "Your  turn,"  said  he,  "has 

come, 

Brave  fellow!  and  may  God  your  soul  forgive. 
My  thrust,  miscarried,  was  a  vicious  one; 
It  was  a  thrust  to  break,  at  single  blow, 
Both  head  and  neck,  had  it  encountered  you." 
Etur  avoided  it,  and  Don  Paez's  sword, 
Foiled  in  its  purpose,  broke  upon  the  soil. 
Then  suddenly  each  seized  his  enemy 
Like  to  embracing  of  long-parted  friends. 
Luck  and  ill-luck !    In  very  hate  they  clutched, 
So  tightly  gripping  that  they  almost  died ; 
And  scarce  their  hearts  could  beat  in  the  embrace ; 
For  space  they  in  this  grapple  needed  sore. 
Fearful  embrace !  where  either  only  wished 
The  opportunity  to  take  a  life; 
Where  each  had  hoped  to  force  his  enemy 
Sound  his  death-rattle,  if  he  rattled  too ; 
Thus  straining  nerve  and  muscle,  their  mouths 

foamed 

In  the  death-grapple  like  enraged  beasts. 
Fearful  embrace!    The  younger  died  in  it. 
He  blanched  and  groaned,  hung  limp ;  and  it  was 

thought, 

When  that  they  tried  to  drag  him  to  the  door, 
They  ne'er  could  sever  him  from  the  embrace 
Of  his  antagonist,  such  was  his  grasp ! 
Thus  died  Etur  de  Guadasse. 


DON    PAEZ  117 

Love,  thou  world's  plague,  folly  detestable, 
Linked  to  the  sensuous  by  so  frail  a  tie, 
And  yet  to  sorrow  by  a  hundred  bonds, 
If  by  the  wiles  of  heartless  womankind 
Thou  dost  inflame  my  blood,  poison  my  soul, 
As  from  a  wound  one  plucks  the  desperate  blade, 
Rather  than  be  a  coward,  to  suffer  it, 
I'll  pluck  thee  out,  even  if  I  should  die. 

Ill 

My  brother,  you  may  know  a  certain  street 
Where  stands  a  home ;  no  doors,  neglected,  bare, 
And  near  the  barriers ;  no  sign  of  life 
But  ragamuffins  mauling  some  poor  dog ; 
No  panes  in  garret  windows  which  the  wind 
Is  breaking,  while  they  like  cobwebs  hang ; 
The  gables  crazy  where  the  lizard  creeps 
To  sun  himself,  no  movement  more  than  this. 
Even  as  we  often  see  by  marlpit's  edge, 
Old  women  spinning  at  the  set  of  sun, 
And  feebly  shaking  threads  with  callous  hands, 
They  droop,  let  fall  their  chin  upon  their  knees ; 
Even  so  this  house,  infirm,  worn  out  by  time, 
And  broken,  poor,  and  rent  by  very  shame, 
Hung  cowering  one  eve  beside  the  way. 
And  there  Don  Paez  on  the  morrow  morn 
Betook  himself.    He  climbed  the  uneven  steps, 
Where  moss  and  ruinous  time  had  racked  the 
stones. 


118  DON    PAEZ 

Within  a  chamber  low,  the  first  he  saw, 
He  looked  about  him,  hesitating,  slow. 
There  is  no  bed  within.    A  reeking  smoke 
Alone  is  proof  of  life  within  this  den. 
Two  chests,  some  stools  which  loudly  creak 
Whenever  any  one  dares  sit  thereon ; 
Pitchers  and  pots,  and  rags  a  thousand  there ; 
Above  the  shelf  four  portraits,  hanging  vile, 
Of  faces  made  to  drive  old  Satan  wild. 
Don  Paez  cries,  "  You  woman,  where  are  you? " 
And  o'er  the  door  a  woolen  carpet  hung ; 
The  daylight  pierced  it,  everywhere  in  holes ; 
To  pull  it  from  the  wall  he  lifts  his  arm. 

"  Come  in,"  replies  a  harsh  and  grating  voice; 

A  wretched  pallet  spread  with  tatters  vile ; 

A  woman,  bare  her  feet,  half  bare  her  form, 

Was  lying  horrible  and  pitiful. 

Perhaps  she  had  been  beautiful  of  old. 

A  forward  winter  came  to  smite  her  down ; 

Her  black  hair  hung  above  a  swarthy  brow; 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  a  courtezan. 

You  might  have  seen  her  once  in  silken  dress, 

And  all  turned  round  to  gaze,  when  with  her 

bells 

La  Belisa  rode  on  mule  caparisoned. 
Then,  it  was  boleros  and  masquerades ; 
To-day,  grim  poverty  has  conquered  her. 
The  Alcaldes,  knowing  her  abode  ill-famed, 
Leave  her  to  die  beneath  her  squalid  roof. 


DON    PAEZ  119 

Here  for  a  few  years  she  had  eked  out  life, 

And  scarcely  can  maintain  a  noisome  trade. 

She  passes  for  a  witch,  and  people  come 

To  visit  her  in  secret  for  her  spells. 

Don  Paez  hesitates  at  sight  of  her. 

She  lifts  her  arms  to  him,  makes  bare  her  breast, 

Now  even  heaving  for  a  wild  embrace. 

Thus  she  allures  him. 

Don  Paez.     Four  words  only  will  I  speak  to 

you. 
Woman.    Dost  know  me?    Take  this  purse,  and 

think. 
That  which  I  want  from  thee  is  neither  tale  nor 

lie. 

Belisa.     Gold,  fine  cavalier!    I  know  your  wish; 
Some  girl  of  France  with  beautiful  blond  hair ; 
I  know  one. 

Don  Paez.  She'd  lose  her  trouble. 

I  have  love  now  but  for  my  hate  of  one. 
Belisa.     Your  hatred?    Ah,  I  understand  you 

now. 

Your  mistress  has  been  wayward  and  you'd  poi- 
son her. 
Don  Paez.     Poison  I  wanted  first.    But  yet  the 

wound 

Made  by  a  dagger  is  more  deep,  more  sure. 
Belisa.     My  son,  your  hand  is  feeble  yet;  you'll 

fail 

In  taking  aim.    My  poison  safer  is. 
Behold  how  red;  it  makes  one  want  to  taste 


120  DON    PAEZ 

How  good  it  is;  you'd  say  it  was  cognac. 

Don  Paez.     You  see,  I  would  not  like  to  see  her 

die 

By  poison;  'tis  too  long  a  suffering. 
I'd  have  to  stay  two  hours  and  talk  to  her. 
Your  poison  is  the  weapon  of  a  dog. 
A  cat  that  mangles,  killing  wantonly 
Some  helpless  rat,  as  if  for  pastime  sheer; 
And  then  these  implements,  this  bitter  death, 
This  sobbing,  gasping  hoarse.    She  is  too  fair ! 
One  blow  would  kill. 

Belisa.  And  so  of  me  you  ask? 

Don  Paez.     Come,  hear  me.     Are  we  right  to 

trust  these  things, 
These  potions  and  their  virtue? 
Belisa.  On  this  board 

Lies  yon  brown  flask,  wherein  you  see  a  leaf. 
Touch  lips  thereto,   and  you  will   straightway 

learn 

If  tales  they  tell  of  philters  can  be  true. 
Don  Paez.     Give  it.     Unbosom  all  my  soul  I 

will: 

This  woman,  after  all,  is  all  my  love. 
A  twig  these  five  years  planted  in  a  rock 
Holds  firmly  when  we  try  to  tear  it  thence. 
Even  so,  Belisa,  in  my  heart  doth  cling 
Resisting,  wild,  impassioned  thought  of  love. 
But  though  that  be,  the  blow  must  fall,  I  fear. 
I  tremble  at  her  eye. 
Belisa.  So  weak  at  heart? 


DON    PAEZ  121 

Don  Paez.     Thou  witch,  my  love  will  kiss,  and 

then  will  die ! 

Belisa.  One  word! 

Control  yourself,  and  know  how  great  the  pain 
To  quaff  this  liquor. 
Don  Paez.  Die  men  so? 

Belisa.  At  first 

Intoxication  as  of  wine  you  feel ; 
Your  spirits  waver,  languor  creeps  into 
Your  brow,   your  head   hangs  heavy,   bearing 

down, 

And  every  step  it  falls,  or  seems  to  fall ; 
Your  eyes  are  weary  and  you  sink  to  sleep — 
A  leaden  slumber,  moveless,  dreamless  trance, 
The  interval  wherein  the  charm  is  wrought. 
It  ceases ;  then,  my  son,  your  vigor  quenched, 
And  you  more  broken  than  the  oldest  man, 
More  than  the  withered  pines  beneath  your  feet, 
Pines  driven  by  north  winds  into  every  ditch ; 
But  you  will  feel  your  heart  to  bound  with  joy, 
And  angels  coming  down  to  walk  as  friends ! 
Don  Paez.     The  suffering,  is  it  great  before  we 

die? 

Belisa.    My  son,  it  is. 

Don  Paez.  Give,  give  the  vial  quick! 

Belisa.     It  cometh  slowly — death. 
Don  Paez.  Mother,  adieu. 

He  laid  the  empty  vial  on  the  verge, 
The  balcony's  edge;  then,  overcome,  he  fell 
Upon  the  marble  like  a  soldier  fallen. 


122  DON    PAEZ 

"  Come,"  said  Belisa,  as  she  drew  his  form 
Away,  "and  sleep.    My  arms  enfold,  and  then 
To-morrow  you  shall  come  to  sleep  in  death." 

How  beautiful  she  is  by  moonbeams'  light, 
Combing  her  auburn  hair  on  snowy  neck ! 
Beneath  the  darksome  tresses  you  might  see 
A  warrior  young  and  crowned  with  helmet  black. 
Her  veil,  unloosing,  falls  in  drooping  folds. 
How    beautiful    and    how    noble!      How    with 

mystery, 

Anticipation,  and  the  moment  nigh, 
Send  quivering  thrills  across  her  naked  breast. 
She  listens.    Now,  arraying  thousand  ghosts, 
The  night,  a  serpent,  wraps  the  domes  around ; 
Madrid  is  listening  to  the  mule-bells  ring, 
And  on  her  sleeping  river  bright  lamps  shine. 
'Twould  seem  that,  while  the  noises  fainter  sound, 
The  city  changed,  became  a  fairies'  home, 
And  all  the  points  of  granite  on  the  towers, 
Will-o'-the-wisps  upon  the  roof -peaks  hung. 
Against  her  lattice  the  senora  leans, 
With  dreaming  brow  upon  the  darkened  panes, 
And  shivers  when  an  echo  from  the  stone 
Repeats  some  foot-beat  down  the  stairway  wide. 
How  bounds  a  woman's  heart !  emotion's  prey, 
When  the  one  thought  that  whelms  her  inmost 

soul 

Flies,  grows  unceasingly,  and  from  her  wish 
Recoils  inconstant  as  the  elusive  wave! 


DON    PAEZ  123 

Then  memory  rouses  hope's  wild,  baffling  dream, 
And  happiness  expected  turns  to  pain ; 
In  vain  the  eye  would  fathom  dazzling  gulfs, 
Like  those  down  whici  Alighieri  climbs. 

Hush!    Do  you  see  along  that  balustrade 
A  lamp  that  turns  and  to  the  summit  climbs? 
He  halts,  puts  out  the  light     ,-\  step  elate 
Resoundeth  o'er  the  stone  ami  IK  arer  draws. 
Unlock  the  door,  my  fair  one.    I  •  *>k,  and  see 
Below  the  postern  pass  a  darV  -loak! 

Beneath  the  portal  «T<-<  j*>  an  arn?«v;  noon  I 
'Tis  he,  Don  Paez!    \VVk-orne,  my  ?>ei  ved! 
Don  Paez.     I  greet  you.    M  ay  the  Lord  protect 

and  guard ! 

Juana.     So  weary,  Paez,  or  I'm  ugly  grown? 
You  stand  aloof.    You  kiss  me  not  to-dav : 

w 

Don  Paez.  ".Svdfdi^k  eanoebUff  of  brandy   v  lien 

I  dined. 
'Juana.     What  ails  you,  dearest?     Why!     The 

door  you  bar 

And  bolt.    Don  Paez  is  afraid  I  go? 
Don  Paez.     To  enter  easy  is,  harder  to  leave. 
Juana.     How  pale  you  are,  O  Heaven!     And 

why  that  smile? 
Don  Paez.     An  instant  since,  methought  that 

woman's  false, 

Betrays  her  love,  Juana,  and  must  have 
A  heart  of  that  base  metal  whence  are  made 
Bad  coins  and  crowns  they  stamp  as  counter* 

feit. 


DON    PAEZ  123 

Then  memory  rouses  hope's  wild,  baffling  dream, 

And  happiness  expected  turns  to  pain ; 

In  vain  the  eye  would  fathom  dazzling  gulfs, 

Like  those  down  which  great  Alighieri  climbs. 

Hush!    Do  you  see  along  that  balustrade 

A  lamp  that  turns  and  to  the  summit  climbs? 

He  halts,  puts  out  the  light.    A  step  elate 

Resoundeth  o'er  the  stone  and  nearer  draws. 

Unlock  the  door,  my  fair  one.    Look,  and  see 

Below  the  postern  pass  a  dark  gray  cloak! 

Beneath  the  portal  creeps  an  armed  man! 

'Tis  he,  Don  Paez !    Welcome,  my  beloved ! 

Don  Paez.     I  greet  you.    May  the  Lord  protect 
and  guard ! 

Juana.     So  weary,  Paez,  or  I'm  ugly  grown? 

You  stand  aloof.    You  kiss  me  not  to-day? 

Don  Paez.     I  drank  a  draft  of  brandy  when 

I  dined. 

'Juana.     What  ails  you,  dearest?     Why!     The 
door  you  bar 

And  bolt.    Don  Paez  is  afraid  I  go? 

Don  Paez.     To  enter  easy  is,  harder  to  leave. 

Juana.     How  pale  you  are,  O  Heaven!     And 
why  that  smile? 

Don  Paez.     An  instant  since,  methought  that 
woman's  false, 

Betrays  her  love,  Juana,  and  must  have 

A  heart  of  that  base  metal  whence  are  made 

Bad  coins  and  crowns  they  stamp  as  counter- 
feit. 


124  DON    PAEZ 

Juana.     I  may  presume  your  evil  dreams  have 

come? 
Don  Paez.     A  dream  so  singular!    To  tell  my 

thought 

I  dreamt  that  women  oft,  assuredly, 
Do  go  amiss,  mistake  wrong  man  for  right. 
Juana.     Do  you  forget  me,  Paez,  where  we  are? 
Don  Paez.     It  is  a  mortal  sin  to  love  two  men. 
Juana.     Alas!  remember  that  you  speak  with 

me! 

Don  Paez.     Yes,  I  remember;  yes,  by  holy  faith, 
My  countess. 

Juana.     God !    What  madness  strange  has  come 
To  smite  your  brain,  my  angel  well-beloved ! 
I,  your  Juana,  I  am  here.    That  name 
You  murmured  yesterday  within  these  arms! 
Our  oaths,  Paez,  our  loves  were  infinite ! 
Our  nights!  those  radiant  nights!     No  slumber 

then! 

Our  tears,  our  cries  were  lost  in  frenzied  joys! 
Ten  thousand  griefs,  his  memory  is  dead! 
And,  as  she  spoke,  her  soft  and  burning  hand 
Took  swift  possession  of  the  young  man's  palm. 
He  instantly  grew  pale,  and  would  draw  back, 
A  child  benumbed,  or  one  who  would  be  burned. 
"  Juana,"  he  murmured,   "  thou  hast  willed  it 

so!" 

His  mouth 

Could  say  no  more,  already  on  the  couch 
They  lay  entwined,  'mid  burning  kisses  given. 


DON    PAEZ  125 

Deep  sobs  were  heaved,  as  coming  from  the  heart. 

Thus  buried  in  their  love  so  passionate, 

They  were  forgetting  day,  and  life,  and  time. 

Like  as  a  pilot  on  the  billowy  deep 

Forgets  the  land  when  gazing  at  the  sky. 

But  silence!  listen.    Here  is  tragedy! 

Why  that  dull  sound  with  cries  of  anguish  shrill? 

Where  all  was  peace?    Who  has  surprised  them 

there? 

What  is  their  terror?    Why  those  dreadful  cries? 
Ah,  who  will  ever  know?    Under  a  cloud 
The  moon  hath  veiled  its  pure  and  lovely  light. 
No  other  witness  had  the  sight  but  night, 
Which  prates  not  of  the  secrets  of  the  dark. 
Who,  then,  will  know  it?    For  myself,  I  think 
The  tomb  safe  refuge  wherein  hope  expires ; 
Where  for  eternity  both  arms  are  crossed, 
And  where  the  slumberers  do  not  awake. 


CHESTNUTS    FROM    THE    FIRE 

CHARACTERS 

THE  ABBE  HANNIBAL  DESIDERIO. 
RAPHAEL  GARUCI,  a  Nobleman. 
PALFORIO,  an  Innkeeper. 
CAMARGO,  a  Danseuse. 
LAETITIA,  her  Maid. 
ROSE. 
CYDALISE. 
Sailors,  Valets,  Musicians,  Porters,  etc. 

PROLOGUE 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  a  comedy 

This  is ;  a  moment  only  'twill  concern. 

And  may  no  noise,  no  thoughtless  lady  free 

At  every  pretty  line  make  people  turn. 

The  piece,  I  frankly  say,  is  like  Moliere; 

Who  could  say,  Nay.    My  groom  and  portress 

these, 
Who  read  the  whole,  with  admiration  burn. 

My  lords,  a  theme  to  suit  you,  if  God  will ; 
Two  brothers  will  for  one  signora  pine, 
She  young  and  lovely.    If  an  actress  fill 
The  part,  less  lovely,  pardon.    Now,  the  fine 
Young  cavaliers  are  rancorous  foes 
And  draw  the  sword.    Fear  not  these  woes. 
Killing  we  understand,  but  death  decline. 

126 


CHESTNUTS   FROM   THE   FIRE     127 

But  what  results  the  affair  might  bring, 
You  are  to  know  unless  to  hiss  you  choose. 
And  no  baked  apples  you  will  kindly  fling 
To   knock   our   curtains   down,    our    footlights 

bruise. 

We've  done  our  best,  repainted  galleries, 
And  then  reflect,  illustrious  signors, 
How  young  the  author,  his  first  step  to  lose ! 

Love  is  the  only  thing  here  below  which  will  have  no 
other  purchaser  than  itself.  It  is  the  treasure  I  wish  to 
give,  or  to  hide  forever,  as  did  the  merchant  who,  spurning 
all  the  gold  of  the  Rialto,  and  making  game  of  the  kings, 
threw  his  pearl  into  the  sea,  rather  than  sell  it  for  less  than 
it  was  worth. — Schiller. 


SCENE   I 

(The   Sea-shore.     A    Storm.     Lord   Raphael, 
three  Sailors.    Palforio.    A  Valet.) 

A  Sailor.     Help!    A  man  is  drowning!    Help, 

Sir  Host! 

Palforio.     What  is  it?    What  is  it? 
The  Sailor.     A  boat  is  stranded  on  the  coast. 
Palforio.     A  boat,  just  heaven!    God  guard  it 

safe  from  harm ! 

'Tis  that  of  the  Lord  Raphael  Garuci. 
( From  outside. )     Help !  help ! 
The  Sailor.  There  are  three  of  them. 

See  them  struggle  in  the  angry  waves! 


128  CHESTNUTS 

Palforio.     Three !  Jesu !    Let's  run  quickly ;  they 

will  pay 

For  four,  if  we  save  one.    Lord  Raphael ! 
None  more  generous  under  heaven!     (Exeunt.} 

(Lord  Raphael  is  brought  in  by  two  sailors, 

a  broken  guitar  in  his  hand. ) 
Raphael.  Ouf ! 

Were  not  two  women  seen  in  yonder  sea, 
Buffeting-  the  waves? 
Second  Sailor.     Yes,  my  Lord. 
Raphael.  They  are  two  good  souls. 

If  you  save  them  you  will  please  me  well. 
Ouf!     (He  faints.) 
Second  Sailor.     See  how  he  trembles!    He  will 

surely  die. 
Let's  carry  him  in  there.    ( They  carry  him  into  a 

house. ) 

Third  Sailor.  Jean,  do  you  know 

Who  tarries  in  this  domicile? 
Second  Sailor.  It's  Signora  Camargo, 

Or  by  my  beard,  I  die ! 
Third  Sailor.  The  dancer? 

Second  Sailor.     Yes,  truly,  'tis  the  very  same 

who  played 

In  the  Palais  d' Amour. 
Palforio  (r e entering) .     My  friends,  if  you  are 

pleased, 

I  pray  you  tell  me  if  Lord  Raphael's  saved ! 
Third  Sailor.     I'm  glad  to  say  he  has  been  res- 
cued, sir. 


FROM    THE    FIRE  129 

Palforio.  Say,  was  his  lordship  carried  to  my 
house  ? 

Third  Sailor.  No,  indeed,  sir;  he  was  brought  in 
here. 

A  Valet  (coming  out  of  the  house).  Noble 
Lord  Raphael  sends  his  thanks  to  all, 

And  here  is  something1  for  to  drink  his  health. 

Sailors.     Long  live  Lord  Raphael  Garuci! 

Palforio.  May  God  preserve  him  for  his  glory 
sure! 

Say,  if  you  please,  if  our  most  glorious  lord, 

Has  oped  his  eyes? 

A  Valet.  Many  thanks,  good  sir,  my  lord  is  bet- 
ter now. 

Ho,  there!  Go  back!  My  mistress  begs  you 
stop 

And  let  his  lordship  sleep  awhile  in  peace. 


SCENE  II 

(In  the  house  of  Signora  Camargo.  Raphael 
lying  in  an  easy  chair.  Signora  Camargo 
sitting. ) 

Camargo.     Raphael,  confess,  your  love  for  me 

is  dead. 
Raphael.     Why  do  you  say  that?    I  am  helpless, 

now, 
Salt  as  a  herring!    As  a  man  unfit 


130  CHESTNUTS 

To  court  you.    You  remember  when  in  Rome, 

Last  year — 

Camargo.     Raphael,  confess,  confess 

That  you  love  me  no  more! 

Raphael.  There !    What  kind  of  mind 

Must  you  have,  madame,  to  suppose  that  I 

Can  e'er  forget  your  favors? 

Camargo.  Is  it  the  real  fault  of  Italy 

That  its  June  suns  make  love  inconstant  prove? 

What  strange  face  was  that,  so  close  to  yours, 

In  that  wrecked  yacht? 

Raphael.  What,  in  my  yacht? 

Camargo.     Yes,  assuredly. 

Raphael.  It  was,  as  I  suppose, 

Laura. 

Camargo.     No,  indeed! 

Raphael.     Then  it  was  either  Cydalise,  or  Rose. 

Does  that  displease  you? 

Camargo.  Not  at  all.     The  half 

Of  violent  love  is  almost  friendship,  sir. 

Is  it  not  so? 

Raphael.     I  know  not.     Where  do  such  ideas 

grow? 

Say,  are  we  going  to  philosophize? 
Camargo.  I'm  not  ill-pleased 

To  see  you,  for  I  wanted  your  consent 
To  allow  me — 

Raphael.     Allow  you?    What? 
Camargo.  To  marry. 

Raphael.     To  marry? 


FROM    THE    FIRE  131 

Camargo.  Yes. 

Raphael.  In  earnest?    On  my  soul, 

I  feel  delighted.     Go,  be  married,  then. 

Camargo.  You  will  not  be  jealous,  no,  nor  even 
mad? 

Raphael.     No,  indeed; 

And  of  the  new  groom,  may  one  know  the  name? 

Foscoli,  I  suppose? 

Camargo.  Yes,  Foscoli  himself. 

Raphael.  Par  bleu!  I'm  charmed;  I  like  the  fel- 
low sure; 

Good  family,  and  he  loves  you  seeming  well. 

Camargo.  And  you  forgive  me  for  thus  leaving 
you? 

Raphael.  With  all  my  heart!  Your  friendship 
is  most  dear. 

But,  speaking  frankly,  two  years  is  too  long. 

What  then?    The  history  of  the  heart!    So  swift 

Comes  all,  and  dies  like  sound,  excepting  grief! 

And  what  am  I,  to  tell  you  this?    A  brain 

Most  shallow.    Flies  the  head,  then  fly  the  feet, 

And  ere  the  feet  can  come,  the  head  is  oft 

Aweary,  whirling  at  the  wind's  caprice ! 

We  must  be  friends.    Good-by  to  jealousy. 

Go,  marry.    We  once  more  may  fancy  feel 

And  love;  who  knows?    If  so,  join  hands  anew! 

Camargo.     Good. 

Raphael.  By  Saint  Joseph,  you  shall  have 

my  hand 

To  go  to  church  and  mount  into  your  coach ! 


132  CHESTNUTS 

Long  life  to  Hymen  1    This  my  wedding  gift. 

(He  kisses  her.) 
And  I  will  add  to  it  a  souvenir. 
Camargo.     Your  fan,  indeed! 
Raphael.  Yes.    Beautiful  it  is! 

As  broad  almost  the  quarter  of  the  moon, 
Gold-stitched  like  peacocks,  fresh  and  gay  as 

wing 

Of  butterfly,  inconstant,  changing  like 
A  woman.    Spangles,  too,  of  silver  such 
As  harlequin.     You  keep  it,  and  perhaps 
'Twill  make  you  think  of  me;  my  portrait  'tis. 
Camargo.     The  master's  portrait!    Malediction! 

Woe! 

'By  heavens !  what  shame,  derision,  is  it  now ! 
You  stupid  fool !    The  snare  has  caught  you  fast 
I  set  for  you?    Who  am  I,  do  you  think? 
You  talk,  and  yet  your  forehead  still  is  moist 
With  yesterday's  sweet  kisses — what  a  shame! 
Begone,  poor  brute!  you  have  only  one  joy. 
A  madman's  thinking,  I  let  slip  my  prey! 
Had  I  to  go  barefooted  in  the  street, 
I'd  go,  Garuci,  though  you'd  hide  yourself. 
And  I  should  make  you  dread  my  love  as  broad 
As  is  the  sea !    My  grave  is  open,  yet 
I'll  steal  behind  your  back  and  push  you  in! 
Whoso  can  lick,  can  bite ;  and  who  can  hug, 
Can  suffocate.    The  front  of  furious  bulls 
Within  the  ring  has  but  small  share 
Of  such  a  strength  as  God  gives  dying  hands. 


FROM    THE    FIRE  133 

Oh,  I  will  show,  even  after  years  are  gone — 
Two  years  of  gnashing  teeth  and  sleepless  eyes — 
A  woman  stained,  dishonored,  all  for  you, 
With  naught  in  this  world,  holding  off  her  death, 
But  you,  your  neck  to  clasp  and  fondly  cling; 
She  had  a  love  unf athomed ;  like  a  twisted  blade, 
You  can  not  tear  it  from  the  heart,  you  crush 
The  soul.    Shall  she  be  cast  aside  and  lost, 
Like  some  old  good-for-nothing  shoe? 
Raphael.  What  eyes ! 

When  you  warm  up  like  this,  how  beautiful ! 
Camargo.     Oh,  leave  me — let  me  go,  or  I  shall 

dash 

My  head  against  this  wall! 
Raphael.     The  wall  would  hurt  you.     See  this 

chair,  how  soft! 

And  why  so  many  tears?    My  angel,  what 
I  said  in  answer,  was  it  then  so  strange? 
I  fancied  I  was  pleasing  when  I  spoke. 
But — not  a  word  did  I  believe. 
Camargo.  Oh,  yes! 

And  yes !    Your  speech  was  very  frank. 
Raphael.     You  thought  so,  dear. 
You  told  a  tale,  and  I  a  story  told. 
Compose  your  thoughts.    I  love  you  as  that  day, 
When  first  I  saw  my  beauty,  my  sole  star! 
Camargo.     My  God,  forgive  him,  if  deceive  he 

wiU! 
Raphael.     Doubt  that  I  love  when  I  behold  such 

eyes  ?    ( He  turns  the  glass. ) 


134  CHESTNUTS 

Who  made  that  eye  so  dark,  and  made 

That  body  else  one  drop  of  milk,  my  love? 

Parbleu !    That  body,  when  it  breaks  away, 

I'll  wager,  passes  through  the  pope's  gold  ring. 

Camargo.  Go,  see  if  no  one  comes. 

Raphael  (aside).  Ah!    What  a  bore. 

Camargo  (alone).     That  can  not  be.    I  am  de- 
ceived, and  he 

Is  merry  with  me.    Ah,  my  step  and  look 

And    speech    proclaim    my    woe!      Oh,    I    am 
mad! 

Raphael  (coming  back).     All  silent  here,  and  si- 
lent, too,  without. 

Your  garden,  faith,  it  is  superb. 

Camargo.  Now  hear, 

Sure  tokens  of  your  love  are  what  I  wait. 

Raphael.     These  shall  be  granted  you. 

Camargo.  I  go  to-day 

To  gay  Vienna;  will  you  come  with  me? 

Raphael.  This  evening?    That 

Is  why  you  needed  me  to  watch? 

Camargo.     Laetitia!  Lafleur!  and  Pascarel! 

Laetitia  (coming  in).  Madame! 

Camargo.     Command  the  horses  for  to-night. 
(Exit  Laetitia.) 

Raphael.  My  faith, 

Hysterics  this  must  be,  I'm  sure,  madame. 

Camargo.     You'll  come  with  me,  of  course? 

Raphael.  To-night?    Vienna?    No. 

I  can  not. 


FROM   THE    FIRE  135 

Camargo.  Then  adieu,  Garuci!  I  depart — 
I  leave  you,  and — more  luck  with  mistresses! 
Raphael.  Mistresses,  and  luck  for  me?  My 

word 

Of  honor,  never  had  I  one. 
Camargo  (out  of  temper).    And  I? 
Raphael.     Dear  heart,  do  not  give  way  to  wrath 

again ! 
Camargo.     And  she — a  little  time  ago?     Who 

were 
Those  people?    Who  the  woman?    You  would 

hide 

Some  creature,  surely.    I  will  go  and  lash 
Her  face! 

Raphael.     So  fine,  my  beauteous  Bradamante ! 
One  moment  since,  you  were  a  charming  girl. 
Camargo.     One  moment  since,  infatuated;  now 
I'm  wise  again. 

Raphael.  A  man  stirs  up  your  wrath 

Who  does  your  bidding.    I  was  by ;  you  bade 
Me  see  if  they  were  coming.    I  obeyed, 
Came  back,  and  for  Vienna  you  depart. 
By  Christ's  cross,  tell  me,  who  knows  how  to  act? 
Camargo.  Of  old, 

When  I  said  to  you,  "  Go!  "  'twas  here,  this  place; 

(Pointing  to  the  bed.) 

You  lay  there,  and  you  called,  for  mercy's  sake! 
I  came  not;  then  you  begged,  and  when  I  came, 
Approaching  slowly,  then  your  arms  were  strong 
To  make  me  fall  upon  your  heart !  Caprice 


136  CHESTNUTS 

Became  command;  each  one  was  justice  pure. 
You  uttered  no  complaint,  and  you,  you  wept ! 
Your  face  turned  pale,  you  hotly  cried,  and  called 
Me  cruel  woman!    Mistress  then,  or  not? 
Raphael   (throwing  himself  on  the  bed).     My 

cruel  queen,  my  angel  goddess  now ! 
I  wait  on  you.    The  lists  are  broken  down. 
Dare  you  to  meet  me? 
C ainar go  (in  his  arms) .     Cold  is  your  love!  Ah 

me, 
My  Raphael  loves  no  more ! 


SCENE  III 

(Before  the  house  of  Signora  Camargo.  The 
Abbe  Hannibal  Desiderio,  stepping  from 
his  chair.  Musicians,  Chairmen.) 

The  Abbe.  Ho,  there,  my  lusty  knaves!  is  this 
the  house 

Where  dwells  the  sweet  danseuse? 

A  Chairman.  Right  there,  my  lord,  and  op- 
posite 

Saint  Vincent's  clock;  those  curtains,  that  you 
see, 

Drape  her  apartment. 

The  Abbe.  Here's  for  you;  thanks. 

This  evening  is  propitious,  and  I  think 

My  ardor  may  at  last  find  its  reward. 


FROM    THE    FIRE  137 

The  moon  will  not  delay  her  rising  hour ; 

Nor  shall  my  goddess  fail  to  smile  on  me. 

One  of  my  sort  wins  favors  at  the  start, 

And  does  not  dance  attendance  at  a  door; 

Nor  wait  outside  to  catch  a  beastly  cold. 

Now  there,  you  rogues,  what  will  you  play  for  us? 

Soft,  high,  or  low,  or  with  an  amorous  strain? 

My  ear  a  dance  enjoys!    My  love  demands 

A  strain  in  minor  key — heigho!    I'll  hide 

Under  the  outside  shutter  of  her  room. 

Her  bedroom,  is  it  not  ? 

A  Chairman.  Yes,  my  lord. 

The  Abbe.  Go  slowly,  softly, 

Now  you  know  the  rest.    My  cruel  lot 

A  kind  of  martyrdom  that  ruins  me 

Follows  me  everywhere.    I  pour  out  gold 

For  suppers  and  gay  serenades,  to  please 

My  goddesses,  and  why?    Pray  tell  me  what 

I  get  for  it? 

Musicians.  Softly,  my  lord;  we'll  play  a  sere- 
nade. (Music.) 

The  Abbe.     Those  tunes  are  all  insipid. 

Sing  simply  "  Belle  Phyllis,"  or  "  Ma  Clymene." 

Musicians.     My  lord,  allegro!     (Music.) 

The  Abbe.     There's  nothing  there, 

At  yonder  window.    H'm!      (Music  continues.) 

She  is  inhuman.    Not  a  sign  of  life. 

Come,  hand  me  your  guitar.  (He  takes  a 
guitar. ) 

Fie!  fie  upon  it!     (He  takes  another.) 


138  CHESTNUTS 

H'm!    I  shall  sing.     These  knaves, 
I  do  believe,  conspire  to  injure  me 
By  singing  flat.     (He  sings.) 

For  love  to  groan  in  bitter  anguish     .     .     . 

Hein!  mi,  mi,  la. 

For  love  to  groan  in  bitter  anguish     .     .     . 

Mi,  mi.     Good! 

For  love  I  groan  in  bitter  anguish, 

For  thee,  Clymene,  I  moan ; 

Oh  grant  my  prayer,  my  own  ! 
But  if  not  so,  no  more  I'll  languish 
For  love  to  groan  ! 

What !  nothing  moves ! 
What  is  she,  then,  to  let  me  wait  about ! 
Tetebleu!  we'll  see!     (He  sings.) 

For  so  much  trouble,  lady  love 

Raphael  (coming  out  of  the  house  and  standing 

on   the   door-step).     Ah,    ha!      Sir    Abbe 

Desiderio, 

At  the  wrong  time,  parbleu! 
The  Abbe.     Wrong  time,  sir!    Not  so  wrong.    I 

put  you  out, 
Perhaps? 
Raphael.     By  no  means.    No,  I  leave  to  you  the 

place ; 

'Tis  worth  the  taking,  on  my  word,  and  more, 
For  'tis  quite  warm. 
The  Abbe.  Sir,  sir,  to  abuse 


FROM    THE    FIRE  139 

The  ears  of  a  man,  there's  no  need  of  an  hour; 

One  word's  enough. 

Raphael.     Pardon  me,  Abbe,  for  I  thought 

Your  ears  Jess  quick  on  that  point,  by  the  way 

Mine  own  had  ta'en  your  songs. 

The  Abbe.  Body  and  head,  sir!  does  your  shal- 
low pate 

Require  a  lexicon? 

Raphael.  There,  softly,  sir!  First  supper  I 
must  have ; 

I  ne'er  yet  fought  without  the  knowing  why, 

Nor  hungry  went  to  bed. 

The  Abbe.  For  one  who  vaunts  so  much,  my 
Lord, 

I  fear  you  fare  but  ill.    What,  then,  may  you 

Be  called? 

Raphael.  I'm  called  the  Lord  Purse-emptier; 
of  heads 

The  breaker ;  and  in  English,  blockhead ; 

Likewise  the  master-killer  of  abbes, 

For  Lord  Garuci  knows  his  father  sleeps 

Most  usually  with  his  mother. 

The  Abbe.  If  there  to-morrow  night  he  sleeps, 
he  runs 

The  risk  his  wife's  a  mother  without  son. 

Where  are  your  lodgings,  pray? 

Raphael.  Hotel  Blue  Dauphin,  in  the  little 
park. 

The  Abbe.    What  is  your  choice  of  arms? 

Raphael.     Pistol,  or  point,  it  matters  not. 


140  CHESTNUTS 

Abbe.     What  hour  is  most  convenient  for  the 

fight? 
Raphael.     The  noontide  hour. 

(The  Abbe  bows,  and  goes   back   to   his 

chair. ) 
Raphael.     That  little  Abbe  seems  to  me  right 

spry; 

He's  a  good  fellow,  and  must  sup  with  me. 
Hey,  there,  sir,  not  so  fast. 
The  Abbe.     What  is  it,  sir? 
Raphael.     You  people  haste  as  though 
A  fever  in  their  heels  took  them  from  hence. 
Stay,  for  God's  love,  till  I  before  you  lay 
An  algebraic  point.    Is't  not  a  fact 
That  whoso'er  of  sober  mind  will  see, 
After  the  table's  joys,  then  come  the  beds, 
As  after  meat  the  wine ;  and,  moreover, 
When  two  good  men,  not  having  met  before, 
Go  forth  to  face  and  fight,  there's  more  bad  grace 
Displayed  than  when  it  rains  a  wench  should  try 
In  satin  shoes  to  tiptoe  from  her  carriage. 
We'll  sup  together,  then,  and,  by  my  faith, 
Be  more  acquainted  for  to-morrow's  work. 
What  think  you,  Abbe? 
The  Abbe.     Willingly,   Marquis,   will   I   feast 

with  you.     (He  rises  out  of  his  chair.) 
Raphael.     Already  the  musicians  have  arrived, 
And  for  the  table — Ho,  Palforio!     (Knocking.) 
This  door  to  force  is  harder  than  a  maid. 
Palforio,  clown,  tripeman,  bag  of  guts ! 


FROM    THE    FIRE  141 

You'll  see  that  now  they're  fast  asleep,  the  brutes ! 

(He  throws  a  stone  at  the  window.) 
Palforio    (at  the  window).     What's  the  good 

pleasure  of  your  courtesy? 
Raphael.     Prepare   a  supper,  for  the  hour  is 

choice, 

In  sooth,  to  let  us  in!    We'll  break  your  lights! 
Wine-bag,  be  quick!    Pardieu!  were  I  as  big 
As  you,  I'd  ask  that  I  be  placed  upon 
My  doorstep,  or  be  carried  as  a  sign, 
For  then  would  people  know  where  I'd  be  found. 
Palforio.     Most  excellent  lord,  excuse  me! 
Raphael.  Come,  now,  look  sharp! 

Stir  up  your  kitchen  aids!  be  quick  to  act! 
Give  us  thy  choicest  wine,  thy  prettiest  maid ; 
Put  all  upon  the  spit,  thy  birds,  thy  fowls, 
Thy  calves,  thy  dogs,  thy  cats,  thy  wife,  and  all. 
Abbe,  pass  on  to  joy;  and  then  to  fight. 
Good  Lord!  we'll  strike  with  our  Herculean 

might. 

SCENE  IV 

(The  dressing-room  of  Signora  Camargo. 
They  are  putting  on  her  shoes.) 

Camargo.     Ay,  let  him  go,  and  leave  me,  but  fail 

not 

To  come  and  tell  me  when  'twill  be  my  step. 
It  is  the  law,  my  heart !    'Tis  very  true 
That  to  the  loved  soul  a  woman  gives 


142  CHESTNUTS 

Her  own;  if  not  so,  why  does  she  conceive 

Desire  to  return,  or  fear  of  losing  it? 

How  different  man's  heart,  like  tide 

Ebbing  from  places  which  most  tempted  it ! 

See  how  the  love  of  one  grows  ever  strong 

In  woman's  breast;  the  man's  love,  how  it  cools! 

The  one,  as  when  a  horse  stung  in  the  breast, 

Madly  against  the  jav'lin  presses  hard, 

And  drives  it  to  his  heart  until  he  dies ; 

The  other,  when  his  side  begins  to  gape, 

And  feels  the  bite  of  murderous  cold  steel, 

Flees  like  a  coward,  and  no  longer  loves. 

Ah,  that  mine  eyes  might  somewhere  else  inflame 

A  wound  like  unto  mine  in  misery, 

Then  I  would  be  more  harsh,  more  pitiless, 

Than  pauper  for  his  dog,  after  he's  said 

"  For  God's  sake !  "  all  day  long  without  a  sou. 

Am  I  not  handsome  yet?    Is  my  cheek  wan 

From  three  nights'  sleeplessness?  or  my  lip  pale? 

True,  God!  I  am  no  more  Camargo!  and 

Beneath  my  rouge  it  may  be  I  am  pale. 

But  no !    I'm  charming  yet.    It  is  thy  love, 

That  time  already  shrivels  and  defames, 

False  Garuci,  and  not  my  face  that  fades! 

A  hobbling  dwarf  no  more  like  Phoebus  is, 

Than  is  the  conduct  of  inconstant  love 

To  ways  of  love  all-faithful  and  secure. 

Ah,  from  this  smiling  morning  now  I  know 

Thy  treacherous  heart ;  for  thou  hast  laid  it  bare. 

We  dream  of  easy  pleasure  for  the  heart 


FROM    THE    FIRE  143 

In  peaceful  ardor  of  la  mode  intrigue. 

What  is  it,  then?    It  is  a  fondled  wave 

That  suddenly  engulfs  us!  fleeting  mists 

Of  smoke  caught  up  and  rent  by  howling  winds. 

Ill  love  departs,  true  love  alone  remains. 

Oh !  in  deep  sorrow,  as  a  winding-sheet, 

May  he  this  moment  lie  asleep !    The  thoughts 

Of  man  are  filled  with  pleasure  that  forgets ; 

A  woman  lives  and  dies  for  love  alone; 

A  year  she  dreams  on  what  he  dwells  a  day ! 

Laetitia  (entering).  Madame,  they  await  you 
for  the  third  scene. 

Camargo.     Is  it  la  Monateuil  who  to-night 

Will  play  the  queen? 

Laetitia.     Yes,  madame, 

And  Monsieur  de  Monateuil,  Sylvain. 

Camargo.  Then  send  the  letter  to  Hotel  Dau- 
phin. 

SCENE  V 

(A  sumptuous  dining-room.    Garud,  seated  with 
the  Abbe  Hannibal.    Musicians.) 

Raphael.     Yes,  my  dear  Abbe,  that  is  how,  one 

day, 

I  came  and  conquered  signorina,  in  the  year 
One  thousand  seven  hundred  sixty-one, 
Of  Anno  Domine. 

The  Abbe.     Sad  victory!    Oh,  sad  in  very  truth! 
Raphael.     Sad,  Abbe?    Yes,  you're  sad  with  too 

much  wine. 


144  CHESTNUTS 

For  Italy,  it  rhymes  with  la  folie; 
And  as  for  melancholy,  it  looks  like  holes 
In  stockings,  or  a  bag  of  rusty  pence. 
People,  who  have  it,  drown  themselves  for  it. 
And  I'd  drown  it,  in  my  turn.     (He  drinks.) 
The  Abbe.     And  when  you  had  that  beauteous 
Camargo,  then  you  loved  her  dearly,  eh? 
Raphael.     Oh,  very  much!  and  then,  to  tell  the 

truth, 

I  went  about  it  in  a  proper  way. 
A  silver  coin  can  soften  hardest  heart. 
It  was,  at  first,  the  sweetest  friendship  life 
From  birth  to  death  possesses.    Seeing  her 
Before  she  rose  from  bed  in  early  morn, 
Or  in  the  evening  when  the  play  was  o'er, 
What  folly,  our  exchange  of  amorous  joys! 
Poor  angel !  she  was  very  pretty.    Ah,  those  days ! 
After  a  month's  satiety,  I  ceased 
To  visit  her,  them  came  reproaches,  tears. 
She  moved  the  heavens  to  hold  me,  but  I  fled, 
And  thus  it  was  she  called  me  traitor  vile. 
That  was  the  least  offense,  and  so  I  quit 
Thenceforth,  avoiding  and  forgetting  her. 
One  evening  fine,  I  know  not  how  'twas  done, 
The  moon  was  rising  brightly  in  the  sky 
The  wind  was  mild,  the  air  of  Rome  was  pure ; 
There  was  a  little  grove  along  a  wall, 
A  little  pathway  where  we  walked  again, 
As  formerly. 
The  Abbe.     And  so  you  took  your  odalisk  again ! 


FROM   THE    FIRE  145 

Raphael    (breaking  his  glass).     True   as   this 

glass  is  smashed, 

My  love  had  cooled,  and  I  had  given  my  life 
To  serve  that  lazy  god  men  Fancy  call, 
Who,  sad  or  gay,  full  face  or  spare  profile, 
Like  Punchinello,  drags  me  with  a  thread; 
'Tis  he  who  holds  my  purse,  and  gives  the  rein 
To  prancing  steed,  a  trifler,  jealous,  false, 
Who  hunts  at  daybreak,  Sunday  and  Friday, 
Sleeps  on  my  pillow  mostly  until  noon. 
I  must  obey  him,  though  he's  light  as  smoke, 
Catching  at  trifles,  has  a  craze  for  days, 
And  then  at  last  for  lovely  womankind; 
But  now,  in  faith,  I  have  no  craze  for  them. 
I  have  seen  so  many  little  princesses ! 
The  first  one,  truly,  ate  me  up  with  love ; 
She  kissed,  caressed,  and  tossed  me  all  about ; 
But  all  is  o'er,  for  that  one  spoiled  me. 
As  for  Camargo,  you  may  have  her  now, 
If  you  desire  her,  but  I'd  sooner  hang, 
Than   that   my   hand   should    even    touch   her 

neck. 

The  Abbe.  Sad! 

Raphael.     You're  sad  again,  Abbe? 

(To  the  musicians.) 

Hey,  monarchs  of  the  bow, 
Divert  his  courtesy  a  little  now!    (Music.) 
My  faith,  this  music  it  is  very  fine! 

(He  talks  while  he  walks,  while  the  orchestra 
plays.) 


146  CHESTNUTS 

Poetry, 

You  see,  is  good.    But  music  sweeter  is, 
Pardieu !    These  tunes  are  very  soulful  things. 
The  throat  without  a  tongue  is  no  avail. 
There's  Dante's  seraphim  who  never  speak. 
For  me,  'tis  music  gives  me  faith  in  God. 
Push  on — crescendo !    Give  your  boldest  note ! 

Parbleu ! 

The  Abbe  is  asleep.    He  calmly  lies 
'Beneath     the    table     like     the     devil     in     his 

cups. 

Sweet  sleep !  thou  healing  virtue  of  the  mind, 
Watch  over  him,  for  to  sleep  when  drunk 
Is,  having  feasted,  the  first  boon  in  life. 
Palforio    (entering).     My  lord,  a  letter  by  a 

messenger. 
Raphael  (after  reading) .    May  Heaven  her  soul 

confound ! 

Say  I  will  go — and  still  I  can  not  go. 
Parbleu !    I  will  not,  and  again  I  must. 
Tell  her  to  wait  for  me.     (Exit  Palforio.) 
Raphael.     Hey,  Abbe!  on  my  soul, 
He  snores  like  mad. 

The  Abbe.  Pardon  me,  madame; 

Was  I  asleep? 
Raphael.     Hey!  do  you  wish  to  have  Camargo, 

friend? 

You  know  she  is  a  beauty ! 
The  Abbe  (rising).     Body  and  head! 
This  evening,  do  you  say? 


FROM   THE    FIRE  147 

Raphael.     This  very  evening.     Hear  me  well: 

she  will  expect 

My  coming  before  midnight;  'tis  eleven  now. 
To  represent  me,  you  must  take  my  coat 

(The  Abbe  unbuttons  his  coat.) 
Ah,  give  me  yours, 

(The  Abbe  takes  off  his  coat.) 

You  will  go 

Right  to  her  dwelling,  to  a  little  door, 
Then  cough  but  twice,  and  wait  for  a  response. 
Now  let  me  hear  you  cough. 
The  Abbe.  H'm!    H'm! 

Raphael.  Admirably  done! 

We're  of  the  same  stature,  as  it  so  appears. 
Then,  let's  change  coats, 

(They  exchange  coats.) 

Parbleu!  this  hypocrite's  soutane 
Gives  me  the  equivocator's  port  and  style. 
The  Marquis  Hannibal!  the  Abbe  Garuci! 
Our  trick  is  splendid.    When  they  let  you  in, 
They'll  introduce  you  softly,  but  don't  go 
And  lose  your  head  then.    Take  her  in  your  arms, 
But  first  of  all,  as  though  by  accident, 
Upset  the  lamp,  lest  she  should  see  your  face. 
You'll  find  the  alcove  on  the  right;  your  love 
Says  not  a  word,  so  likewise  answer  her. 
The  Abbe.  I'll  see  this  fair  one, 

Be  it  life  or  death ;  and,  Marquis,  do  you  hear, 
If  e'er  my  mistress  pleases  you,  what  day  or 
hour 


148  CHESTNUTS 

You  write  me  but  three  words,  may  I  expire 
If  you  do  not  enjoy  her  that  same  night  1 

(Eacit   the  Abbe.     Raphael   calls   to   Mm 
through  the  window.) 

Abbe,  if  you  wish 

To  be  taken  for  me  quite,  bestow  a  kiss 
Upon  the  maid  as  you  go  in.     Ho,  there,  my 

knaves ! 
Let  some  one  summon  Cydalise. 


SCENE  VI 

(At  the  house  of  Signora  Camargo.    Caviar  go, 
the  Abbe,  Laetitia.) 

Camargo  (entering).     Take  off  my  shoes.    I'm 

choking!    Was  my  note 
Delivered? 

Laetitia.     Yes,  madame. 
Camargo.  What  was  the  answer? 

Laetitia.     That  he  would  come. 
Camargo.  Was  he  alone? 

Laetitia.     With  the  Abbe. 
Camargo.  What  is  the  Abbe  called? 

Laetitia.     His  name  I  know  not,  but  he's  short 

and  fat. 

Camargo.     Laetitia? 
Laetitia.  Madame? 

Camargo.  Come  nearer.    Don't  you  think 

I'm  very  pale? 


FROM   THE    FIRE  149 

I'm  positively  sick,  and  look  so  ill; 
I'm  quite  a  fright ;  my  hair's  not  even  dressed ; 
You  lace  me  far  too  tight ;  I  can  not  breathe. 
Laetitia.     Why,   madame,  you've  the  sweetest 

face  of  all, 

And  your  complexion's  lovely. 
Camargo.     You  think  so?     Raise  this  curtain. 

Come  and  sit 

Beside  me.    Tell  me,  do  you  really  think 
That  for  a  woman  'tis  misfortune  dire 
To  love  deep  down  within  her  burning  soul? 
Laetitia.     'Tis  no  misfortune,  when  the  woman's 

rich! 

The  Abbe  (in  the  street).     H'm! 
Camargo.  Dost  thou  not  hear 

Some  one  who  coughs?     Yet  that  is  not  his 

step. 
Laetitia.     Madame,  it  is  his  voice.    I'll  ope  the 

door. 

Camargo.     Pour  me  this  vial  over  my  shoulder. 
(Signora  Camargo  is  for  a  moment  alone, 
and   silent.      Laetitia   returns   with    the 
Abbe}  who  is  dressed  in  Garuci's  cloak , 
then  immediately  retires.    The  end  of  the 
cloak  catches  on  the  lamp  and  it  falls.) 
The  Abbe  (falling  on  her  neck).     Oh! 

(Signora  Camargo  is  seated;  she  rises,,  and 
goes  to  the  alcove.  The  Abbe  follows  in 
the  dark.  She  turns  around,  extends  her 
hand  to  him;  he  clutches  it.) 


150  CHESTNUTS 

Camargo.  Help ! 

Help!    It  is  not  he! 

(Both  are  motionless  for  an  instant.) 
The  Abbe.     Madame,  as  I  was  going  by    ... 
Camargo.     Police!    Who  is  this  man? 
The  Abbe   (putting  his  handkerchief  over  her 

mouth).     Ah,  head  and  blood! 
My  fine  lady,  not  one  word.    You're  my  sweet 

prisoner. 

Scream,  if  you  will.    I'll  hold  you;  you  must  do 
Whate'er  I  say. 

Camargo    (suffocating).     Heuh! 
The  Abbe.  Hear  me!    If  you  wish 

That  we  should  pass  an  hour  at  pulling  hair, 
'Tis  as  you  wish.    I  am  willing,  but  I  swear 
You  can  not  profit  by  it.    Rest  assured, 
If  you're  complaisant,  you  will  nothing  lose. 
Madame,  keep  quiet,  in  the  name  of  heaven! 
You'll  wound  yourself.    I  feel  to  my  regret 
That  I've  offended  you. 
Camargo   (striking  him  with  the  clasp  of  her 

belt).     You  are  a  wretch, 
Assassin !    Help ! 

The  Abbe.  Madame,  be  calm, 

I  pray  you.    Surely  you  won't  make  alarm ! 
To  make  the  people  prattle,  gendarmes  come? 
We  are  alone,  'tis  night,  and  you  are  wrong 
To  think  we  walk  at  midnight  with  no  sword. 
When  you  have  made  me  rip  a  valet  up, 
Or  kill  a  citizen,  am  I  more  kind? 


FROM    THE    FIRE  151 

Will  not  suspicion  argue  properly, 

That,  being  criminal,  my  guilt's  complete? 

Camargo.     Who,  therefore,  are  you,  you  who 

talk  so  bold? 

The  Abbe.     'Pon  honor,  I  was  Garuci  just  now, 
But  at  the  present — 
Camargo   (leading  him  to  a  moonlit  window). 

Come.    Upon 
Your  life  and  blood,  make  answer!     Say  what 

means 

This  cipher? 
The  Abbe.     Forgive  me,  madame,  I  am  surely 

mad 

With  love  of  you.    I  know  not  where  I  stand. 
Ah,  do  not  put  on  me  that  mortal  wrong 
To  think  this  heart  the  home  of  such  deceit. 
I  was  no  more  myself.    My  witness  heaven, 
That  no  man  labored  more  to  merit  you. 
Camargo.     Believe  I  can,  indeed,  you  have  a 

brain 
Half -clouded.     Now  this  dress,  whence  came  it 

here? 

The  Abbe.     From  him. 
Camargo.  Him?    You've  committed 

murder,  then? 

The  Abbe.     He's  lively — had  a  bottle  as  I  left. 
Camargo.     What  game  is  this  we're  playing? 
The  Abbe.  Look,  couldn't  he 

Himself  alone  invent  the  stratagem? 
And  see  you  not  that  he  alone  could  give 


152  CHESTNUTS 

The  thing  I  saw,  and  surely  crown  my  love? 
Who  else  than  he  would  show  your  house  to 

me? 

Lend  me  these  garments,  fix  so  well  the  hour? 
Camargo.    When  from  my  brow  shall  fall,  ah, 

Raphael, 

My  hairs  beside  my  feet,  one  after  one; 
And  when  my  hands  and  cheeks  shall  turn  all 

blue 

Like  drowned  men's ;  when  eyes  let  eyeballs  drop 
Amid  my  tears — then,  then  you  will  conclude 
That  I  have  suffered  richly,  and  you'll  rest. 
The  Abbe.    But— 
Camargo.  What  sort  of  man  he  sends  to 

take  his  place! 

What  mire  is  mingled  with  the  water  flung 
Into  my  face?    Let's  see,  now,  which  is  writ, 
The  coward  or  the  blockhead,  in  your  eyes? 
The  Abbe.     Madame! 

Camargo.  Somewhere  I've  seen  you! 

The  Abbe.  At  the  Count 

Foscoli's? 

Camargo.     So  it  was.    Were  it  no  shame, 
A  pity  it  would  be  to  see  you  thus, 
A  misfit  clown ;  my  heart  it  would  revolt ! 
Let's  see,  what  had  you  drunk,   and  in  these 

freaks 

How  much  counts  drunkenness,  and  impudence 
How  much?    You  I  believe,  and  he  alone, 
The  player,  picked  you  as  his  instrument. 


FROM   THE    FIRE  153 

But  listen.    This  may  to  your  profit  turn. 

Go,  seek  and  find  him ;  if  at  table  still, 

Tell  of  successes,  say  when  he  desires 

To  lend  the  Opera  ladies  to  his  friends, 

You'll  thank  him  for  a  damsel. 

The  Abbe.     The  Opera?    You  would  be  much 

surprised 

To  hear  he's  supping  now  with  Cydalise. 
Camargo.     What!  with  Cydalise? 
The  Abbe.  Yes,  yes.    A  wager  now 

We  catch  the  music  should  the  breeze  be  strong. 

(They  listen,  and  hear  in  the  distance  the 

slow  strains  of  a  symphony. ) 
Camargo.     True!    Heavens  and  earth! 
The  Abbe.  And  thus  he  would  forget 

With  Cydalise,  who  is  not  young  or  fair, 
The  pearl  of  these  our  times !  Ah,  madame,  think, 
Your  winsome  charms  are  thus  insulted,  scorned. 
Think  of  the  time,  the  hour,  and  of  my  flame ! 
Believe  your  kindness    .    .    . 
Camargo.  Cydalise ! 

The  Abbe.  Madame, 

Will  you  not  deign  to  rest  your  eyes  on  me? 
If  absolute  devotion    .    .    . 
Camargo.  You  must  rise. 

Have  you  aught  strength  of  arm? 
The  Abbe.  I  say! 

Camargo.  Your  sword ! 

The  Abbe.    Madame,  in  truth  you've  cut  your 

hand,  I  fear. 


154  CHESTNUTS 

Camargo.  What?  Pale  before  the  time,  and 
fainting  now? 

The  Abbe.  No,  no.  Tetebleu!  You're  thirst- 
ing, then,  for  blood? 

Camargo.  Abbe,  I  will  have  blood.  I'm  more 
athirst 

Than  crows  allured  by  noisome  carcasses. 

He's  there,  you  say?  Run  quick  and  cut  his 
throat, 

And  drag  the  man  before  me  by  the  heels ; 

Tear  out  his  heart,  for  fear  he  may  be  cured ; 

Cut  him  in  quarters,  wrap  in  table-cloth, 

And  bring  him  here ;  and  may  the  lightning  blast 

Me  if  each  wound  win  not  one  kiss  for  you. 

You  tremble,  Roman?    Strange  mistake  to  think 

That  your  good  angel  brought  you  to  this  house ! 

The  blood  affrights  you,  but  to  weave  a  cloak, 

A  cardinal's,  you  need  the  point  of  knife. 

My  heart  so  big  you  judged  that  I  could  hold 

Two  loves  at  once,  and  neither  break  away ; 

Another  error.     Great,  not  great  enough, 

My  heart  for  that.    The  last  love  gnaws  the  first ! 

The  Abbe.  But,  madame,  really,  is  it?  Doubt- 
less 'tis 

Assassination — and  the  law? 

Camargo.  Now  here, 

Upon  my  knees,  I  do  beseech  you. 

The  Abbe.  But 

To-morrow  I  can  fight.    The  other  can  not  be ; 

Wait  till  to-morrow,  madame. 


FROM    THE    FIRE  155 

Camargo.  If  he  should  die 

To-morrow,  and  I  die?    And  I  go  mad? 
And  if  the  sun,  beginning  now  to  pale, 
Could  never  rise  above  the  horizon  dark, 
For  men  have  seen  such  nights  on  earth  of  old, 
To-morrow.    Shall  I  wait,  and  count  the  hours 
In  seconds  on  fingers,  or  with  living  throbs 
Of  heart-beats,  like  to  a  computing  Jew, 
Counting  the  interest  on  a  loan  nigh  due? 
In  fine,  until  to-morrow  shall  I  humor  thee, 
By  playing  heads  or  tails,  and  curb  my  wrath 
At  point  of  pistol  trembling  in  thy  hand? 
No,  hell  and  fury!  for  to-day  is  ours, 
To-morrow  it  is  God's ! 

The  Abbe.  But  think  now    .     .     . 

Camargo.     Hannibal,  take  me  to  thine  arms! 

By  Heaven,  I  love  thee! 

(She  casts  herself  on  his  neck.) 
The  Abbe.     By  all  the  fiends! 
Camargo.  My  sweet  love,  I  implore 

Protection  of  thee.    See,  the  hour  is  late. 
Wilt  thou  deny  me?    Here,  this  poniard  take — 
Who  will  perceive  thee  passing?    All  is  dark! 
The  Abbe.     He  dies,  and  thou  art  mine? 
Camargo.  This  night  he  dies! 

The  Abbe.     Before  an  hour? 
Ah  me!    I  can  not  walk.    My  knees  are  weak. 
I  totter!     .     .     . 
Camargo.     Hannibal,  I'm  ready,  and  I  wait! 


156  CHESTNUTS 


SCENE   VII 

(At  the  Inn.    Raphael  is  seated  with  Rose  and 
Cydalise. ) 

Raphael  (singing). 

Trivelin  or  Scaramose,* 
Fill  the  bottom  of  thy  cup  ; 
If  thou  drink  it  brimming  up, 
I  will  say  thou  wip'st  thy  nose 
With  thy  toes. 

I  know  not  from  beneath  what  pyramid 

Of  wine  in  bottles,  or  in  brimming  glass, 

The  demon  who  can  fuddle  me  can  hide; 

I  still  despair  of  ever  finding  him. 

Cydalise.  Your  health,  my  prince! 

Raphael.     Yours,  goddess!    Let's  drink  a  toast 

to  Death; 

Vive  I' amour.,  by  my  faith!    The  devil  take 
My  mistress !    Life  a  rugged  highway  is. 
Be  gay,  my  fellow  traveler. 
Cydalise.     Sing  all  of  you,  and  I  shall  dance. 
Raphael.  Well  said,  indeed. 

Ah,  what  a  pretty  leg! 

(He  reclines  at  Rose's  feet  and  preludes.) 
I  am  Hamlet  at  Ophelia's  knees ; 
My  queen,  my  folly's  milder,  and  her  eyes, 
Under  black  lashes,  other  gods  implore. 

(He  sings.) 

*  For  Scaramouche. 


FROM    THE    FIRE  157 

If,  in  the  grottoes  of  old  Gnide, 

When  Venus'  arms  about  him  lie, 

Should  hoary  Jupiter  decide 

To  give  me  immortality, 

And  all  the  glory  of  a  god, 

And  all  of  pleasure  for  a  nod, 

And  if  such  pleasure  ne'er  could  fail ; 

Immortal  gods  !  although  I  died, 

A  simple  hour  I'd  sooner  bide 

At  home  with  gentle  Lydia  pale. 

How  I  love  this  shapely,  palpitating  breast ! 

Ho  dancer,  to  the  minuet,  and  you, 

Some  Spanish  wine! 
(To  Rose.) 

And  let  your  glances  flow,  too,  with  the  wine. 

For,  God  be  thanked,  my  reason  'gins  to  leave. 

Cydalise.     You're  leaving  me  to  dance  alone? 

Raphael.  My  queen, 

That's  not  well  said.     (He  rises.) 

This  table's  in  our  way. 
(He  tips  it  over  with  his  foot.) 

Palforio  (entering).     My  Lord,  I  can  say  noth- 
ing else,  except 

That  for  disturbing  you  I  pardon  crave. 

The   dreadful   noise   you   cause   has   made   the 
folks 

Around  my  house  to  ask  the  cause  of  it. 

Pray,  scream  less  loud. 

Raphael.  Ah,  parbleu!    I  will  scream 

Much  as  I  please,  my  belly-bearing  host! 

Hallo!  hallo!    Ah,  bah! 


158  CHESTNUTS 

Palforio.  My  Lord,  I  do  entreat 

That  you  will  notice  that  'tis  late. 

Raphael.  Come,  peace,  old  pig! 

Remember,  I'm  an  Abbe.    Say  a  word, 

And  you  I'll  excommunicate.    Go  back, 

You  club-foot! 

(He  sings  and  dances.) 

Sir  Abbe,  whither  dost  escape  ? 
Whither  away,  thy  neck  to  break  ? 

Palforio.     Pardon,  I  beg  your  honor,  but  I'll 

call 

The  guard,  if  you  insist  on  screaming  thus. 
Raphael.  Take  care 

My  foot  may  seek  thy  breeches. 

(He  kicks  Palforio.) 

Palforio.  Help!  help! 

I'm  dead! 
Raphael.     Here  am  I,  ventrebleu!  in  thy  vile 

house, 

And  being  here  for  pleasure,  will  not  leave. 
Palforio.     My  lord,  excuse;  this  house  belongs 

to  me, 

And  you  shall  leave  it  quickly.    Help !  Police ! 
Raphael  (hurling  a  bottle  at  his  head).     Take 

that! 

Palforio.     Ah!     (He  falls.) 
Cydalise.  You  have  killed  him ! 

Raphael.     No. 
Cydalise.  Yes,  yes! 


FROM    THE    FIRE  159 

Raphael.  No. 

Rose.  Yes,  indeed. 

Raphael  (he  shakes  them  off).     Bah! 
Palforio,  here,  old  pig!    None  better  knows 
Where  beggars  go  at  death.    I  wonder  why 
That  Satan  or  old  Pluto  from  the  first 
Have  kept  their  fingers  off  his  hairless  nape. 
Good  night,  my  faith.    The  knave's  put  out  his 

light. 
Farewell,  thou  stomach  without  head!     We'd 

better  go. 

The  watch  would  make  us  pay  the  damages. 
'Tis  hard  to  part  so  soon.    Come,  beauty,  come. 
I  thought  him  worthy;  these  decrepit  souls, 
In  old  sheaths  rusted,  are  like  ancient  blades. 
Cydalise.     Peace,  they  come! 
A  Voice.  You  are  wanted. 

Raphael.  Here,  I  believe, 

Led  by  the  Abbe,  are  the  constables. 
My  angel,  let's  not  wait ;  this  secret  gate, 
Well  hidden,  leads  us  through  the  little  lane 
To  my  hotel. 
'A  Voice.     'Tis  there! 

Cydalise.  O  God!    If  they  come  in! 

Raphael.     Come,  then!  the  jacket!  the  mask! 

and  the  hat ! 

This  way,  this  way.    Good  night,  my  Cydalise. 
Cydalise.     Good  night,  my  prince. 
A  Sergeant  (entering).     Halt!  here  are  two  we 

take. 


160  CHESTNUTS 

Cydalise.     My  prince,  run — save  yourself! 
The  Sergeant.  Hold  him! 

Raphael.  It  rains, 

But  what  of  that?    Faith!  let  him  run  who  may. 

(He  jumps  through  the  window.) 
A  Soldier.     Sergeant,  we've  nothing,  for  your 

man  has  leaped 
Right  through  the  window. 
The  Sergeant.     Follow  him  fast!    What's  this? 

The  innkeeper 
Is  dead!    Now  speed  ye!  on  the  assassin  fall! 


SCENE  VIII 

(A  street  on  the  sea-shore.  Raphael  climbing 
down  a  lattice.  The  Abbe  in  the  back- 
ground.) 

Raphael.  A  plague  on  bars!  Hey,  give  me 
back  my  vest! 

Comrade;  where  art  running  now  so  fast? 

Well?  and  your  amours — what  of  them? 

The  Abbe.  'Tishe! 

Raphael.  I  am  pursued,  dear  sir.  I  will  ex- 
plain ; 

But  let  me  have  my  coat. 

The  Abbe.  I  hear  the  hue  and  cry.  They're 
calling  you! 

Tetebleu!  'tis  something  great! 


FROM   THE    FIRE  161 

Raphael.  Oh;  a  trifle. 

I  think  that  I've  killed  some  one  where  they 

complain. 

The  Abbe.     Parbleu!  is  that  a  fact? 
Raphael.     Later  I  will  explain;  but  let  me  have 

the  coat. 
The  Abbe.     The  coat?    No,  by  the  Lord,  I  want 

not  yours ; 

For  you  the  guard  would  take  me. 
Raphael.     Oh,  what  a  sanctimonious  man! 

(Several  people  cross  the  stage.) 
Give  me  the  coat:  'tis  well.    I'll  go  and  say 
Two  little  words  unto  those  beggars  there. 
The  Abbe.  Never 

Shall  I  dare  kill  that  man.     (He  sits  on  a  stone.) 
The  Sergeant.  Ho,  there!  I  seek 

For  the  Lord  Raphael. 
Raphael.  Unless  he  sits, 

As  birds  are  wont,  upon  some  chimney-pot, 
Unless  he  sinks  into  the  ground,  or  falls 
Into  the  water,  you  will  certainly 
Capture  this  desperate  criminal.    Do  you  know 
What  kind  of  man  he  is? 
The  Sergeant.  Yes, 

I  have  his  full  description :  A  green  plume, 
With  orange-colored  hose. 
Raphael.  Really!  parbleu! 

You'll  have  no  trouble,  and  you'll  find  it  play 
To  capture  so  redoubtable  a  man. 
How  much,  now,  do  they  give  you  for  this  work? 


162  CHESTNUTS 

The  Sergeant.  H'm! 

Raphael.  Think  you,  really, 

Your  captain  pays  you  what  the  work  is  worth? 

Is  the  goodman  soft,  or  hard,  in  giving  gold? 

The  Sergeant.    Well,  he'd  not  die  giving  a  lit- 
tle more. 

I  think  not  on't.    My  stomach,  not  my  back, 

Is  toward   my  work.     Better  the   noose   than 
shame ; 

And  then,  the  man  once  hanged,  we  get  his  coat. 

Raphael.     Not    counting   blows,    if   he    should 
draw  his  sword. 

The  Sergeant.     I  have  good  pistols. 

Raphael.  Let's  see,  and  then  ? 

The  Sergeant.     My  sergeant's  club. 

Raphael.  Good.    And  then? 

The  Sergeant.  This  dagger  of  Tuscany. 

Raphael.     Right  excellent.     And  then? 

The  Sergeant.  I  have  this  sword. 

Raphael.  And  then? 

The  Sergeant.     And  then!   I've  nothing  more. 

Raphael  (beating  him).     This  for  your  cries, 

And  for  your  pistol. 

The  Sergeant.  Ai'e! 

Raphael.  And  for  your  club, 

Your  dagger  fine  from  steel  of  Tuscany. 

The  Sergeant.     Ai'e;  ai'e!  I  am  dead! 

Raphael.  The  Lord  Garuci, 

No  doubt,  is  home.    This  is  the  way  you  go. 
(He  pushes  him  out.) 


FROM   THE    FIRE  163 

After  the  fashion  of  Don  Juan  is  this. 

(Returning.) 

What  think  you  of  the  rogue  ?  Now  let's  escape. 
For  me,  to  Rome. 

(The  Abbe  goes  to  him  and  runs  Ms  dagger 

in  his  throat.) 

Abbe!  Abbe!  are  you  crazy.  (He  falls.) 

I'm  out  of  it. — 
Ah,  malediction!  but  you'll  pay  for  this. 

(He  tries  to  rise.) 

The  final  blow.    I  choke!    Ah,  misery! 
One  blow,  last  blow,  my  dear  Abbe!    The  earth 
Around  me  turns.    Ah,  dog  of  Abbe,  go ! 
Or  by  th'  eternal  Sire,  I'll  butcher  thee! 
Why  tarry  there,  thou  phantom,  who  dost  stand, 
Eyes  open  wide? 

The  Abbe.  I?    I  await  thy  death. 

Raphael.     Damnation!    Will  you  leave  me  here 

to  die, 

Like  to  a  pagan  beggar  in  the  street? 
I'll  harm  you  not;  come,  end  me.    Just  a  glass 
Of  water,  for  God's  love !    To  mother  say, 
I  give  my  fortune  to  my  clown,  Pippo. 

(He  dies.) 
The  Abbe.     Go!    Thy  death  my  life,  thou  fool! 

Thy  tomb, 

The  nuptial  couch  where  my  betrothed  shall  lie 
Under  the  canopy  of  this  cold  night. 
Around  the  lanterns  now  the  owl  doth  wheel. 
The  monstrous  sturgeon  flingeth  from  his  back 


164  CHESTNUTS 

The  sea's  blue  mantle ;  silent  doth  he  watch 
Over  its  mirror  vast,  the  passing  moon. 
Crouching  and  murm'ring  low,  the  sorceress 
With  words  of  blood  washes  for  devil's  dance 
The  naked  maiden;  Hecate,  triple-faced, 
Wrinkles  her  white  robe  on  the  reedy  swamp; 
Oh,  hark!    The  hour  strikes,  and  thus  computes 
A  step  of  time  made  toward  eternity. 
Sleep,  ashes,  in  the  sea,  whose  memory. 
Shall  also  sink  to  heart  of  darkest  wave. 
(He  throws  the  body  into  the  sea.) 
Ye  clouds,  discharge,  to  purify  this  path, 
Lest  the  foot  slip  that  passes  on  the  scene. 

SCENE  IX 

(At  the  house  of  Signora  Camargo,  who  is  at 
the  piano,  silent.  A  low  knocking  is  heard 
at  the  door. ) 

Camargo.     Come  in. 

(The  Abbe  enters.  He  presents  his  dag- 
ger to  her.  Camargo  looks  at  it  a  time, 
then  rises.) 

He  suffered  much? 

The  Abbe.     Ha!  'twas  the  work 

Of  but  a  moment,  ere  he  died. 

Camargo.     What  said  he? 

The  Abbe.  He  said  the  earth 

Was  turning. 

Camargo.  What!  no  more? 


FROM    THE    FIRE  165 

The  Abbe.  Yes ;  that  he  gave  his  wealth 

To  his  clown  Pippo. 

Camargo.  What!    No  more? 

The  Abbe.  No,  nothing. 

Camargo.     He  wears  a  diamond  ring  upon  his 

finger. 

I  pray,  go  fetch  it  me. 
The  Abbe.     I  can  not  go. 
Camargo.  The  place 

Where  you  have  left  him  is  not  very  far. 
The  Abbe.     No,  but  I  can  not. 
Camargo.  Abbe,  all  I  promise  thee 

I  will  make  good. 

The  Abbe.     I  can  not  get  the  ring  to-night. 
Camargo.  Why? 

The  Abbe.  Oh!     .     .     . 

Camargo.  Wretch ! 

Thou  hast  not  killed  him! 

The  Abbe.  May  Heaven  crush  me 

If  I  have  not,  in  very  truth,  madame ! 
Camargo.  Then  why  not? 

The  Abbe.     I  swear  to  you,  I  threw 
His  body  in  the  sea!  i 

Camargo.     What!  to-night,  into  the  sea? 
The  Abbe.  Yes,  madame. 

Camargo.  Then  it  is  indeed  for  you 

A  thing  unfortunate,  for  on  my  soul, 
That  ring  I  wanted  badly. 
The  Abbe.  Had  you  told  it  me, 

At  least 


166  CHESTNUTS 

Camargo.  Curse  thee!  what  proof  have  I 

to  credit  thee? 

Upon  what  honor  wilt  thou  swear?    On  which 
Of  thy  two  bloody  hands?     Where's   sign  of 

it? 
The  thing's  not  certain,  and  thou  mayest  but 

boast. 
Thou  shouldst  have  cut  the  hand  and  brought  it 

me. 
The  Abbe.     Madame,  the  night  was  come.    The 

sea  was  near, 
And  so  I  threw  him  in. 
Camargo.  I  am  not  sure  of  it. 

The   Abbe.     Ay,    but,    madame,    this   blade   is 

warm,  and  it 
Is  bleeding. 

Camargo.     Neither  blood  nor  heat  are  rare. 
The  Abbe.     His  body's  not  so  far,  some  one  may 

try     ... 
Camargo.     The  night's  too  dark,  the  ocean  is 

too  wide. 

The  Abbe.     But  I  am  pale — see  me! 
Camargo.  My  dear  Abbe, 

Was  I  not,  too,  to-night,  when  that  I  played 
The  role  of  Thisbe  in  the  opera? 
The  Abbe.     Madame,  in  name  of  Heaven! .   .   . 
Camargo.     Perhaps,   by  searching  well,   you'll 

find  the  corpse. 
My  window  fronts  the  sea. 

(She  leaves.) 


FROM    THE    FIRE  167 

The  Abbe.  Oh,  she  is  gone!  O  God! 

I've  killed  my  friend.    I've  merited  the  fire. 
I  have  stained  my  coat,  and  I  am  sent  away. 
That  is  the  moral  of  this  comedy. 

1829- 


TO    THE    READER    OF    THE  TWO 
PIECES   WHICH   FOLLOW 

ANXIOUS  to  be  amused,  I  see  the  reader  go  forth 
Seeking  the  opera  house,  to  hear  a  drama  of 

worth. 
Shall  he  see  acting  fine,  shall  he  hear  some  music 

sweet? 
Chances  are  ten  to  one  if  he  feels  his  pulses  beat. 

Scenes  that  may  make  him  laugh,  or  scenes  that 

may  make  him  weep, 

Scenes  that  are  but  a  bore,  or  him  amused  keep ; 
These  may  be  his  choice,  or  he  yawns  at  a  dismal 

play, 
What  then?    It's  the  fashion  to  go,  to  while  the 

time  away. 

Reader,  you  take  such  luck  when  you  buy  this 

offered  book; 
But  then,  it  costs  no  more  than  the  seat  at  the 

play  you  took. 
Do  not  be  overgrieved  if  you  find  its  solace  a 

snare, 
But  be  consoled  by  this,  you  had  not  to  leave  your 

chair. 

168 


OF  WHAT  YOUNG  MAIDENS  DREAM 
A  COMEDY 

CHARACTERS 

THE  DUKE  LAERTES. 

THE  COUNT  IRUS,  his  Nephew. 

SILVIO. 

,,         '      >  Twins,  daughters  of  Duke  Laertes. 
NINETTE,  ) 

FLORA,  the  Maid. 

SPADILLE,  )  _. 

„  >  Domestics. 

QUINOLA,  ) 

The  scene  is  where  you  will. 

ACT    THE    FIRST 

SCENE  I 
(A  bedroom.    Ninon,  Ninette.) 

Ninette.  It  strikes  eleven.  Good  night,  my  sis- 
ter dear, 

For  I  must  go  and  sleep. 

Ninon.  Good  night.    Afraid 

To  cross  the  park  you  must  be,  with  your  room 

So  far,  and  it  is  late.    Flora  I'll  send 

To  keep  you  company. 

Ninette.  By  no  means,  for  September's  sky  is 
bright, 

And  Bacchanal,  besides,  will  come  along. 

169 


170      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Here,  Bacchanal! 

(She  goes  out,  calling  her  dog.) 
Ninon  (kneeling  at  her  priedieu). 

\ 

0  Christe  !  dumjixus  cruci 
Eocpandis  orbi  brachia, 
Amare  da  crucem,  tuo 
Da  nos  in  amplexu  mori. 

(Undresses.) 

Ninette  (returning;  flings  herself  into  a  chair). 
My  dear,  I'm  dead! 

Ninon.     What  ails  you?    What's  amiss? 

Ninette.  I  can  not  speak. 

Ninon.     I  tremble  as  I  see  you  breathing  there. 

Ninette.  I  was,  my  dear,  not  three  steps  from 
your  door; 

A  man  runs  up  and  lifts  me  in  his  arms, 

He  kisses  as  he  can,  then  sets  me  down 

And  makes  off  running. 

Ninon.  Good  Lord!    What  can  we  do? 

Perhaps  he  was  a  thief. 

Ninette.  I  think  not  that. 

Upon  his  shoulder  there's  a  splendid  chain, 

A  Spaniard's  cloak  all  lined  with  velvet  black, 

And  two  big  spurs  that  shone  amid  the  grass. 

Ninon.  This  thing  is  far  too  strange  to  under- 
stand, 

How  any  gentleman  could  try  such  tricks — 

A  man  in  cloak  of  black — the  devil,  sure. 

Who  knows,  my  dear?    Yes,  or  perhaps  a  ghost! 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      171 

Ninette.     I  can  not  think  so,  dear;  there's  his 

mustache. 
Ninon.     I'm  thinking,  tell  me,  then;  some  lover 

now? 
Ninette.     If  he  should  come  again,  you  let  me 

hide. 
Ninon.     It  may  be  that  papa  would  frighten 

you. 

Howe'er  it  be,  Ninette,  some  one  must  take 
You  back.     Come,   Flora,  come!     Attend  her 

home. 

(Flora  appears  at  the  door.) 
Good-by,  and  close  your  door. 
Ninette.  And  you  close  yours. 

(Kisses  her,  and  goes  out  with  Flora.) 
Ninon  (alone;  bolting  the  door).     Two  spurs  of 

silver,  cloak  with  velvet  lined! 
A  chain!    A  kiss!    Extraordinary  this! 

(Letting  down  her  hair.) 

I  don't  look  well  in  bands.    My  hair's  too  short. 
I  guessed  it  right,  for  father  is  the  one. 
Ninette  is  timid.    He  could  watch  her  pass, 
His  daughter;  plain  enough  that  he  may  kiss 
His  child.    My  bracelets,  how  they  fit. 
( Unfastens  them. )     Methinks, 
That  strange  young  man  who  comes  to  dine  with 

us 

To-morrow.     He's  a  husband,  possibly, 
For  us.    How  droll!    I  think  I  feel  afraid. 
Which  dress  shall  I  put  on?     (Lies  down.) 


172      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

A  summer  robe? 

No,  winter.     That  should  give  the  proper  air. 
No,  summer.    That  is  younger,  less  elaborate. 
At  table  he  will  sit  between  us  two. 
Ninette  will  please  him.    Bah !  we'll  wait  and  see. 
And  spurs  of  silver,  cloak  with  velvet  trimmed! 
Good  God!  how  warm  it  is  for  autumn  nights. 
And  still  I  must  have  sleep.    I  hear  a  stir! 
'Tis  Flora  coming  in.    No,  no  one  yet. 
Trala,  traderi,  la.    How  nice  in  bed! 
How  ugly  aunty  looked  in  those  old  plumes 
At  supper  yesterday!     How  white  my  arms! 
Tra,  deri,  da!    My  eyes  are  shut.    Mustache; 
He  grasps,  and  kisses  her  and  runs  away. 

(Begins  to  drum.    A  sound  of  guitar  and 

voice  at  the  window. ) 
The  Voice. 

Ninon,  Ninon,  this  life  you  scorn. 

The  hour  takes  wing,  day  follows  day. 
This  eve  the  rose,  it  fades  with  mom. 

What's  left  that,  loveless,  ebbs  away  ? 

Ninon  (waking).     Is  it  a  dream?    I  thought  I 

heard  a  song. 
The  Voice. 

Look  on  yourself,  Ninon,  my  child. 
Your  eye  it  glances,  heart  beats  wild. 
To-day  the  spring,  to-morrow  morn 
The  winter  comes,  and  you're  forlorn. 
You  have  no  star  to  be  your  guide  ; 
You  feel  no  love,  you  speak  with  pride. 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      173 

One  glance  of  love  would  gladden  me ; 
I'd  give  my  life  if  'twere  for  thee. 

Ninon.     I   was  not  wrong;  those  words,  how 

strange ! 

The  singer  knows  my  name.    How  can  this  be? 
He  knows  some  beauty,  and  her  name  Ninon. 
The  Voice. 

O  life,  the  day  begins  anew, 
When  glows  the  earth  with  passion  true. 
Unfold,  ye  flowers  !     Let  sleep  depart. 
Let  darkness  heal  fair  Cupid's  smart. 
This  life's  a  sleep,  and  love  its  dream; 
My  life  is  yours,  with  love  its  gleam. 

Ninon  (raising  the  blind).     His  silver  spurs  are 

glittering  with  dew; 

A  chain  with  golden  tassels  on  his  cloak. 
Mustache  is  curled.    He  pulls  at  it,  and  goes. 
Who  is  the  man?    How  shall  I  learn  his  name? 


SCENE  II 
(Irus,  dressing.    Spadille,  Quinola.) 

Irus.     Which  one  of  you,  you  rogues,  put  on 

my  wig? 

The  ribbons  scratch  me  in  the  neck ;  besides, 
I'm  smeared  with  powder,  and  my  eyes  they 

smart. 

Quinola.     Not  I. 
Spadille.  Nor  I. 

Quinola.  I  stood  and  held  the  cue. 


174      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Spadille.     I,  sir,  was  combing. 
Irus.  Liars — you  both  are  liars! 

Come  quick !    Rose-colored  coat,  culottes  of  blue. 
Hum!  brum!    This  powder!    Devil,  I  am  blind. 

(Sneezes.) 
Quinola     (opening    a    wardrobe).      Monsieur 

could  hardly  wear  the  blue  culottes. 
The  lamp  was  near,  and  all  the  oil  leaked  out. 
Quinola    (opening   a   second).     Monsieur,   the 

coat  of  pink  is  all  besmeared; 
Unfolding  it,  I  found  the  cat  lay  there. 
Irus.     Is  this  the  way  you  frustrate  all  my  plans? 
My  friends,  hear  me !    I  have  a  new  idea. 
What  is  the  hour? 

Spadille.  Monsieur,  the  clock  has  stopped. 

Irus.     Have  they  rung  twice  already  to  come 

to  dine? 

Quinola.     No  one  has  rung. 
Spadille.  Yes,  yes;  some  one  did  ring. 

Irus.     I  tremble  every  moment  lest  our  guest 
Who  is  to  come  to  dine,  come  not  to-day. 
Spadille.     And  you  must  dress  in  green. 
Quinola.  Better  wear  gray. 

Irus.     What  month  is  this? 
Spadille.  November  is  the  month. 

Quinola.     'Tis  August,  August! 
Irus.  These  two  coats  put  on, 

And  then  walk  to  and  fro  about  the  room, 
That  I  may  watch  the  effect  I  shall  produce. 

(They  obey.) 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      175 

Spadiile.     I  look  a  marquis. 
Quinola.  Minister  am  I. 

Irus  (watching  him}.     Spadille's  a  goose,  Qui- 
nola pedant-like. 

I  am  not  sure  of  which  to  make  my  choice. 
Laertes  (entering] .     And  you,  my  nephew,  look 

like  a  dunce  complete. 

Why  are  you  not  ashamed  to  powder  head, 
And  lose,  in  running  round  your  cabinet, 
More  time  than  it  to  write  a  sonnet  takes? 
Come  on  to  dine;  your  plate  impatient  waits. 
Irus.     You  would  not,  would  you,  on  your  life, 

I  say, 

So  drag  me  off,  no  rouge,  and  naked  half? 
What  coat  have  I  to  wear? 
Laertes.  The  handiest,  first. 

Now  listen  to  me,  for  at  the  table  sits 
Our  newcomer — a  charming  fellow,  young, 
On  marriage  bent  with  one  of  my  two  girls. 
In  God's  name,  cast  a  look  of  triumph  not 
On  him,  and  gaze  on  some  one  else ;  but  strive 
To  please,  and  do  not  bolt  the  dishes  down, 
As  is  your  wont.    Quiet  and  shy  is  he, 
And  well-behaved;  a  decent  fellow.    Try, 
If  you  should  find  his  manner  somewhat  plain, 
Not  to  let  loose,  when  taking  in  your  snuff, 
Your  winning  smile,  your  jokes  from  almanacs. 
Upon  your  luck  with  women  don't  descant, 
Nor   flood   yourself   with   those   accursed   per- 
fumes ; 


176      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Our  noses  we  must  hold  to  talk  with  you ; 
White  gloves  are  out  of  place;  bare  hands  at 

meals. 
Irus.     You  tempt  me  quite,  to  square  with  all 

your  views, 

To  doff  my  coat  of  green  and  dress  in  black. 
Laertes.     No,  no ;  by  all  the  saints,  I  thank  you, 

no! 

A  plague  upon  you!  Who  would  care  a  fig, 
If  green  your  coat,  to  note  that  fact,  parbleu! 
Irus.  May  I  at  least  request  this  young  man's 

name? 
Laertes.     And  what  is  that  to  you?    His  name  is 

Silvio. 

Irus.     Not  bad  is  Silvio;  that  name  is  fine; 
Irus  and  Silvio;  mine's  best. 
Laertes.     His     father     is     my     friend — your 

mother's,  too. 

We've  had  our  plan,  for  twenty  years  or  more, 
To  die  one  family,  unite  our  race. 
And  would  to  Heaven  that  son  a  brother  had. 
Irus.     Monsieur  le  Due,  what  do  you  mean  by 

this? 

Am  I  not  fit  to  be  a  son-in-law? 
Laertes.     Good,  good,  I  know.     But  you  can 

learn  to  wait 
And  take  your  turn,  but  Silvio  shall  choose. 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      177 


SCENE  III 

(The   Garden.     Ninon,   Ninette,   in   different 
arbors. ) 

Ninon.     That  voice  is  ringing  yet  within  my 

ear. 
Ninette.     That  wondrous  kiss   doth  make  me 

quiver  still. 
Ninon.     At  midnight  we  shall  see,  and  wait  and 

wait. 
Ninette.     To-night  no  sleep;  to-night  I  will  not 

sleep. 
Ninon.     Sweet  is  your  voice,   and   sweet  your 

songs  are,  too; 

Mysterious  singer,  come  once  more  this  eve. 
Or,  as  the  swallow  sighs  and  flies  away, 
Shall  happiness,  one  instant  here,  take  flight? 
Ninette.     O  daring  phantom,  shrouded  in  that 

veil, 

Shall  dangers  lurk  in  shadows  of  the  night? 
Or  shall  I  see  you  in  that  pathway's  gloom, 
Or  will  you  vanish  like  the  hunted  fawn? 
Ninon.     Earth,  air,  and  water,  all  in  harmony: 
A  nightingale  doth  warble  in  my  heart. 
I  hear  the  genii  murmuring  'neath  the  reeds. 
Have  I  new  senses  sister  dreams  not  of? 
Ninette.    Why  can  I  not  behold  without  delight, 
Without  a  pang,  the  zephyr  kiss  the  stream, 


And  linden  shadows  tremble  o'er  my  arm? 
My  sister  is  a  child,  but  I  am  not ! 
Ninon.     O  flowers  of  summer  nights,  magnifi- 
cent! 

0  plants !  O  bending  boughs,  together  interlaced. 
Ninette.     O  foliaged  palm,  queen  of  the  verdant 

world, 
Pour  forth  your  love,  encircled  by  the  breeze! 

(Exeunt.) 
Silvio  (entering).     Still  my  heart  hesitates,  for 

both  are  fair! 

So  like  to  like,  twins  by  the  grace  of  Heaven ! 
Two  forms  so  filled  of  light,  two  hearts  as  one, 
And  either  one  might  be  her  sister's  mold. 
Pale  are  they,  both  of  them,  and  both  are  shy, 
Frail  as  a  reed,  blond  as  a  blade  of  wheat; 
And  like  twin  trembling  aspens  they  vibrate 
At  touch  of  hand.    My  senses  are  confused; 

1  can  not  speak;  a  fever  whirls  my  thoughts; 
At  any  word  my  soul  would  leap  to  tongue. 
But  they,  how  gently  bred!  what  supple  grace! 
I  left  my  college  hall  but  yesterday. 

(Enter  Laertes,  Irus  with  a  cigar.) 
Laertes.     Well,  well!    Our  guest,  where  are  the 

ladies  now? 

Irus.     Just  after  dining,  and  without  cigar? 
Silvio.     Dear  Duke,  dear  father,  move  one  step 

I  can't.     (Embracing  Laertes.) 
My  being  seems  to  fail. 

(Ninon  and  Ninette  enter.) 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      179 

Irus.  The  ladies  come. 

Ninon,  my  chin  is  smooth — a  kiss  is  due! 

(Ninon  runs  off,  Irus  goes  after  her.) 
Laertes.     The  wine  at  dinner  has  befuddled  him. 

(They  saunter  away.) 


SCENE  IV 
(Ninette.    Flora.     Ninon,  later.) 

Ninette.     You  hurry,  Flora.    Tell  me  where  you 

got 

That  chain  of  acorns.    Who  could  give  you  that? 
Ninon    (running   in).     Let's    see — come    now. 

Quite  out  of  breath  am  I. 
That  Irus  is  a  fool.    You  found  them  all? 
A  pretty  necklace.    Flora's  proud  indeed. 
Flora  (to  Ninon).     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

(Leads  her  to  a  corner.) 

Ninon.  What  mystery? 

Flora.     Return  into  your  room  and  read  this 

note. 

Ninon.     A  note?    But  whence? 
Flora.  You  tuck  it,  if  you  please, 

In  there — the  little  corner  o'er  your  heart. 

(She  puts  it  in  her  bosom.) 
Ninon.     You  know  the  secret? 
Flora.  I?    There's  naught  I  know! 

(Ninon  goes  out,  running.) 


180      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Ninette.     What  said  you  to  my  sister?    Why  her 

haste? 
Flora   (producing  another  note).     For  you  to 

read. 

Ninette.  Why!    And  read  I  will! 

But  what  is  this?    Explain. 
Flora.  Read  on — read  on. 

But  yet,  take  care,  I  see  your  father  there ; 
Go  to  the  room  and  think  to  lock  the  door. 
Ninette.     Why  so? 
Flora.  To  read  more  clearly,  more  at  ease. 

(Exeunt.) 

(Enter  Laertes  and  Silvio.) 
Silvio.     I  think  our  coming  puts  the  girls  to 

flight. 

I  fear  the  ladies  have  some  fault  to  find. 
Laertes.     Good,   let  them  run.     You'll  please 

them  quick  enough. 

Tell  me,  friend,  if  you  have  spent  spare  time 
In  paying  court  to  ladies,  now  and  then, 
What  measures  best  to  tame  the  cruel  fair? 
Silvio.     Father,  don't  rail  at  me;  I'd  ill  defend 
Myself,  although  I  come  of  southern  blood. 
Never  imbroglios,  no,  nor  gallantries, 
Nor  art  mysterious  of  flatteries, 
Nor  art  of  being  loved,  my  portion  was. 
Under  the  sky  I'll  live,  as  if  on  earth 
I'd  just  arrived,  seek  touch  of  hand  to  hand. 
A  tear-drop,  or  a  sigh  of  sympathy, 
For  me  is  love,  and  always  will  be  love. 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      181 

Passion  do  I  possess,  but  not  its  eloquence. 

My  rivals  with  their  honeyed  words  may  charm, 

I,  in  my  silence,  know  but  how  to  love. 

Laertes.  The  women,  after  all,  require  a  mas- 
ter's hand. 

Indeed,  though  loving  not,  if  one  is  bold, 

He  pleases  them.     So  dear  is  courage  then, 

They  love  a  war  to  get  a  conqueror. 

Believe  me,  I  have  known  them  variable. 

They  say  no  two  leaves  ever  are  alike, 

Or  two  hearts  made  the  same;  I'll  promise  you 

That,  in  seducing  one,  the  world's  seduced. 

One  has  flat  feet,  the  other  a  plump  leg, 

But,  for  the  genus,  it  will  never  change. 

Say,  have  you  seen  an  English  steeplechase? 

They  take  four  thoroughbreds,  by  riders  driven ; 

The  course  is  shown  them,  and  they're  told  to  go ! 

The  thing  is  to  arrive,  no  matter  how, 

Whether  in  ravine,  or  on  a  beaten  track. 

This  one  will  win,  should  he  not  meet  a  stream, 

The  other  wins  if  he'll  not  break  his  neck. 

Love,  Silvio,  is  but  a  test  of  strength; 

You  have  to  reach  the  goal,  which  is  the  woman. 

Of  torrent  have  a  care,  beware  of  rock; 

Do  what  you  will,  the  goal's  immovable. 

But  know  you're  taking  all  your  pains  for 
naught, 

If  you  but  keep  your  place  and  cry  aloud, 

"  I  love  thee,  goal!    Come  to  me,  or  I  die." 

Silvio.     I  feel  the  truth  of  this  your  parable, 


182      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

But,  if  I  have  no  skill  by  words  to  win, 

What  could  I  do  of  worth,  when  action  comes? 

The  real  world  for  me  a  fiction  is 

Like  to  a  mandolin  on  cushion  laid, 

That  some  one  has  forgotten;  so  am  I: 

It  holds  within  a  language  that's  divine, 

But  if  the  master  sleeps,  who  hears  its  spell? 

Laertes.     Therefore  do  you  attend  to  what  I 

say: 

A  husband,  if  received  from  father's  hand, 
Is,  for  a  tender  maid,  but  sorry  fare ; 
Then  is  the  wedding-ring  a  gilded  snake. 
'Tis  in  the  summer  nights,  on  ladder  thin, 
A  sword  within  his  hand,  in  mantle  dressed, 
A  maiden  of  fifteen  dreams  of  her  love. 
She  sees  a  hero  ere  she  sees  the  man. 
A  father's  spouse  is  one  of  flesh  and  blood. 
There,  dear  Silvio,  what  I  wish  from  you 
Is  knowledge  of  some  fine  accomplishment. 
Know  you  the  fencing  art? 
Silvio.  Yes,  I  have  drawn  the  sword. 

Laertes.     And  as  for  pistol  work,  you  kill  the 

manikin, 

Not  so?    'Tis  well;  my  valets  you  shall  kill. 
My  daughters  have  two  letters  just  received; 
No  farther  seek,  for  I  addressed  them  both. 
Ah,  could  you  understand  just  what  it  means, 
A  billet-doux  when  one  is  just  fifteen! 
How  charming  is  the  place  it  occupies! 
First,  next  the  heart;  then,  after,  at  the  belt; 


WHAT    MAIDENS   DREAM      183 

The  pocket  follows;  then  the  bureau-drawer; 

Now  it  is  taken  out  for  carriage-ride! 

Visits  the  ball!    Or,  often  on  the  way, 

Deep  in  the  pocket,  lies  all  closely  pressed! 

And  how,  all  silently,  at  father  laugh, 

Who  nothing  knows  of  love,  from  immemorial 
times ! 

With  great  ado  it  stirs  these  little  heads! 

Do  you  desire  to  find  out  who  you  are 

This  very  hour?    You  are  a  noble  knight, 

The  fair  Prince  Galaor,  who  lives  in  Arcady; 

Lara  himself  are  you;  I  signed  your  name; 

Th'  old  Duke's  chosen  son-in-law!    But  no, 

Out  of  the  sky  you  drop,  like  tragedy, 

Bully  my  valets,  force  my  bolts  and  bars ; 

The  watch-dog  you  caress;  enslave  the  girl; 

The  bane  and  terror  of  the  family. 

And  this  we  wish  the  groom-elect  to  be. 

Silvio.     Such  an  idea  makes  me  melancholy; 

'Tis  just,  indeed;  but  it  distresses  me. 

Laertes.  Young  man,  and  have  you  not  ideals 
too? 

Silvio.     Why  not,  like  every  one?   We  see  a  star, 

Distant,  unknown,  of  which  we've  always 
dreamed ; 

But  most  must  die  without  discovering  it. 

Laertes.  Do  you  attach  great  price  to  childish- 
ness? 

The  fact  prevents  not  women  to  be  wise, 

Wholesome,  and  frank  of  heart;  'tis  all  of  taste; 


184      WHAT   MAIDENS   DREAM 

That  pleases  them;  'tis  charming,  and  it  wins. 

Hark  to  me,  Silvio;  this  evening 

You  shall  enwrap  you  in  a  cloak  of  black ; 

Flora  will  slumber,  for  I've  paid  her  well. 

These  ladies  will  descend  in  morning  gowns, 

For  they  will  apprehend  from  double  note 

That  you  were  looking  to  appoint  a  tryst. 

For,  if  not  that,  what  good's  a  billet-doux? 

Then  penetrate  into  the  chamber  loved. 

Enter  alone,  like  a  conspirator. 

Then,  gay  deceiver,  what  will  you  enact? 

Some   screaming   will  be   heard.      The    father 

comes, 

Like  to  the  general  in  Festin  de  Pierre, 
In  chamber  robe  will  suddenly  appear ; 
Candle  in  hand,  he  then  will  challenge  you. 
You  shall  extinguish  it  with  rapier  stroke. 
Right  there  we'll  carry  on  a  bloodless  war, 
And  all  the  blood  which  need  be  shed,  will  be, 
As  soon  as  spilled,  well  covered  with  sawdust, 
To  make  believe  it's  blood  lost  in  the  fray. 
No  one  shall  know  what  has  become  of  you, 
And  both  the  girls  will  moan  "  O  Heaven;  he's 

hurt!" 

Silvio.     I  can  not  play  a  part  in  such  a  pass. 
Consider,  my  dear  Duke,  where  I'd  arrive. 
Know  you,  since  it  must  be  that  one  I  wed, 
If  I  should  love  inspire,  whom  shall  I  love? 
Laertes.     Perchance  the  twain.     Is  it  not  true, 

my  son, 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      185 

If  I  esteem,  wherein  can  one  reprove? 

Son,  well-belov'd !  Let  fools  go  wag  their 
tongues. 

Silvio.  With  words,  alone,  the  earth  has  been 
upheaved. 

Laertes.  Eh!  what's  that  to  me?  I've  none  but 
you, 

After  my  daughters  twain.  Why  care  for 
sneers? 

Under  your  golden  head,  you've  wisely  grown 

To  venerate  my  honor  and  renown. 

Silvio.     Ah,  I  would  sooner  die  than  injure  you! 

Laertes.  Let  us  suppose  of  both  you  are  be- 
loved. 

The  one  who  will  remain  will  pardon  you. 

Your  image,  Silvio,  will  banished  be 

By  a  new  fancy,  by  a  suitor  new; 

For  children,  credit  me,  love  the  unknown. 

When  once  you  shall  be  master  of  the  place, 

And  every  day  at  table  will  preside, 

Your  mere  propinquity  will  gender  love ; 

After  the  coffee,  when  beside  the  board, 

The  being  of  mystery  becomes  a  friend. 

My  son,  you  will  be  loved,  and  this  I  crave  ° 

If  my  fool  nephew  speaks  of  marrying, 

He'll  be  detested  for  impertinence, 

And  this  is  as  I  wish.    My  daughters  sweet, 

The  one  shall  be  your  wife,  the  other  prove 

A  sister.    Thus,  I  trust,  my  brother's  son 

Husband-elect  to  one  of  my  dear  girls, 


186      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Who  will  not  stoop  to  soil  their  father's  hearth, 
Nor  of  his  silvery  hairs  will  dare  make  sport. 
Who  knows? — perhaps,  one  day,  my  lonely  one 
Shall  chance  to  find  the  husband  whom  she  needs. 
You  see  I  do  not  count  on  Irus  now; 
Th'  important  thing  is  to  avoid  this  fool. 

(Enter  Irus.) 

Irus.     My  lord,  have  supper;  it  is  past  the  hour! 
Laertes.    Why  have  you  gone  and  changed  your 

coat  again? 
Irus.     This  is  a  better  fit ;  the  last  too  snug. 

(Exeunt.) 


ACT   THE    SECOND 

SCENE  I 

(The  garden.     It  is  night.     Duke  Laertes,  in 
dressing-gown;  Silvio,  wrapped  in  mantle.) 

Laertes.  So  soon  as  that  faint  light  which  one 
perceives, 

From  window  unto  window  makes  its  wander- 
ings, 

Shall  to  this  corner  turn,  to  reappear 

No  more,  it  shall  be  time  to  act. 

Silvio.  I've  said,  my  lord,  this  thing  displeases 
me. 

Laertes.     Ah,  well.    For  me,  all  this  amuses  me. 

With  melancholy  I'm  not  waging  any  war; 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      187 

Save  idleness,  it  is  the  best  of  ills ; 
In  general,  it's  a  touchstone  to  my  mind ! 
Shy  plant,  we  never  see  it  flourishing 
With  fools  and  overfed  pomposity; 
But,  Silvio,  cheerfulness  becomes  old  age; 
We  yearn  for  beauty,  loving  sadness  too. 
One  touch  of  rouge  at  sixty  fits  us  well; 
An  old  man's  task  it  is  to  cheer  old  time. 
And  why  should  men  make  age  a  mere  reproach? 
The  answer's  plain:  with  most  of  mortal  men, 
When  not  a  prude,  it  is  a  go-between. 
Cassandra  is  the  dread  of  lenient  age. 
And  yet,  think  you  that  simple  nature  lets 
Her  creatures  live  forgetting  her,  my  dear? 
That  she  has  granted  thirty  years  of  life, 
And  then  the  rest  to  groan  or  knit  away. 
Imagine,  Silvio,  how  I  sang  last  night 
Quite  famously,  at  least  an  hour  or  more? 
I  so  perplexed  my  daughters ;  but,  by  Jove, 
I  think  the  truth  was,  I  amused  myself. 
Silvio.     And  so,  in  this,  dear  Duke,  'tis  you  I 

love. 

To  be  myself  again  is  now  my  need. 
Reflect,  my  friend,  nothing  will  be  left, 
No  hero,  nor  romance. 

Laertes.  Good  Lord,  I  know. 

A  novel  in  a  bed,  one  knows  not  what, 
And  every  dream  may  then  be  realized. 
The  bagatelle  comes  first,  the  real  we  need ; 
And  you,  my  boy,  I  hope  have  this  in  you. 


188      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

It  is  the  rule,  in  any  ease  like  this, 

That  those  who  chatter  much,  attain  no  proof, 

And  this  reveals  God's  wisdom  all  in  all. 

Musk-scented  gallants,  blooming  like  the  rose, 

We  see  them  morn  and  eve,  from  tryst  to  tryst, 

So  pliant,  soft  as  gloves  before  the  girls ; 

They  climb  the  walls,  they  dance  above  the  rails ;' 

At  finger-tip  they  have  the  thing  you  need, 

And  what  they  lack  you  have  within  your  heart. 

No  harlequin  for  son-in-law  to  me! 

No   fellow   shaped   to   slip   through    keyholes! 

Now 

Were  you  like  them,  I  were  disconsolate. 
But  yet  the  method!    You  must  strive  to  please. 
Once  you  are  married,  why,  the  affair  is  yours. 
Allow  me,  I  would  beg,  one  question  more: 
Have  you  till  now  existed  passionless? 
Or,  frankly,  now,  are  you  a  virgin  knight? 
Silvio.     In  heart,  in  soul,  in  body,  head  to  feet. 
Laertes.     No  man  I  loathe  as  much  as  youthful 

rakes. 

The  hearts  of  libertines  are  like  an  inn: 
At  any  hour  you  find  the  fire  ablaze ; 
Good  quarters ;  bed  well  made ;  above  the  door 
The  key;  you  enter  now;  to-morrow  go! 
Such  timber  never  makes  a  husband,  sir! 
The  wife  is  new,  let  all  be  new  to  you. 
No  blessing  is't  that  you  her  elder  be 
In  body  nor  in  heart.    Now  try  to  guess 
What  joy  may  lurk  in  love's  astonishment! 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      189 

She  has  her  secrets,  you  will  have  your  own. 
Be  children  long — the  other  children  come! 
A  secret  here  that  men  too  soon  forget. 
Silvio.     And  if  my  wife  expects  a  profligate, 
How  dreadful  must  my  ignorance  appear! 
Do  you  fear  naught  from  such  astonishments? 
Laertes.     Like  an  impertinence  my  words  may 

sound. 

My  daughters  feed  on  innocent  romance. 
Ah,  Silvio,  a  precious  flower  I  give  to  you; 
Gently  remove  the  ignorant  sweet  leaves. 
Did  you  but  know  the  wrong  some  husbands 

work, 

Imparting  to  their  brides  those  infamies 
Concealed  by  most,  thus  likening  tender  wives 
To   women   without    shame,    of   whom   they've 

learned, 

And  naught  leave  new  except  adultery. 
If  you  were  such,  Irus  I  would  prefer. 
I'll  quote  some  words  I  found  in  Hesperus: 
"  Do  thou  respect  thy  wife;  heap  bed  of  earth 
Around  that  plant  ready  to  blossom  forth; 
But  suffer  none  to  fall  within  the  bloom." 
Silvio.     My  father,  to  my  arms!   I  see  sweet 

heaven ! 
Laertes.     More  white  than  heifer  is,  my  son  thou 

art. 

More  pure  than  is  her  milk,  your  heart ; 
Humble  of  soul  are  you;  such  pleases  me. 
Have  faith  in  him  who  gives  to  you  his  child. 


190      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Since  I  have  joined  you  to  my  family, 

My  choice  is  good;  I'm  making  no  mistake. 

Silvio.     From    window   unto    window    light    is 
come. 

Laertes.     The  hour's  about  to  strike.     Son,  to 
my  arms! 

Silvio.     It  flickers  in  the  dark,  'tis  going  to  dis- 
appear. 

Laertes.     You  have  your  role   by  heart,   and 
naught  forgot? 

Silvio.     The  light's  gone  out. 

Laertes.  Bravo !    The  hour  has  come  I 

Come  quietly  along  the  avenue  wall. 

Forward,  my  cavalier,  on  soft  tiptoe. 
(Exeunt.) 

SCENE  II 
(A  terrace.    Ninon,  Ninette,  en  deshabille.) 

Ninon.     What  do  you  there  so  late,  my  sweet 

Ninette? 

'Tis  time  to  go  to  sleep.    You'll  take  a  chill. 
Ninette.     I  came  to  see  the  moon  so  beautiful. 
How  full  of  stars  the  sky ! 
Ninon.  Tra,  la,  la! 

Ninette.  What  said  you? 

Ninon.  It  is  a  minuet. 

But  without  love.  Heigh  ho!  my  dear  ballade! 
Ninette.  Get  you  to  bed,  Ninon;  I  couldn't  go 
To  sleep. 


Ninon.     My  faith,  no  more  could  I. 

(Aside.)    Now  if  he  were  to  come ! 
Ninette  (singing). 

Leonore,  whose  lover  near, 

Once  said  to  her,  my  little  dear     .     .     . 

Ninon.     I  really  am  afraid  you're  taking  cold! 
Ninette.  I'm  choking  with  the  heat. 

(Aside.)     I  tremble  lest  he  fail. 
Ninon  (taking  up  the  song). 

Who  said  to  her,  my  little  dear 

Ninette.       I  do  believe  she  means  to  sleep  out 

here! 
Ninon.     Some  one  comes  up  the  stair.     If  it 

were  he! 
Ninette  ( continuing ) . 

Leonore,  whose  lover  near     . 

Ninon.     She  has  no  thought  of  leaving  me  alone. 
And  if  he  were  to  come! 

Ninette.  Dear  sister  mine,  now  please, 

Do  go  and  get  to  bed ! 

Ninon.  And  why?    I'm  very  well. 

Now  listen:  promise  me  you'll  nothing  say; 
I'm  going  to  confide    . 
Ninette.  I  must  confess  to  you     . 

Ninon.     Swear  to  me  on  the  honor    .     .     . 
Ninette.  The  secret 

do  not  breathe. 


192      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Ninon.     Here,  then;  this  letter  open. 

Ninette.  And  you,  read 

o'er  this  note. 

Ninon  (reading).  "If  love  can  make  excuse 
for  my  folly,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  my 
lovely  lady,  grant  to  me  .  .  . " 

Ninette  (reading).  "If  love  can  make  excuse 
for  my  folly,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  my 
lovely  lady,  grant  to  me  .  .  . " 

The  Two  Together.  Great  Heaven !  The  same 
name! 

Ninette.  My  dear,  some  one  is  making  game 
of  us! 

Ninon.     Oh,  horrors! 

Ninette.  Til  die  of  it. 

Ninon.  Could  anything  be  bolder! 

Ninette.  Flora  shall  pay  me  dear  for  having 
carried  it. 

Ninon.  That  handsome  necklace  was  her  rec- 
ompense. 

Ah  me! 

Ninette.     Ah  me! 

Ninon.  My  dear,  now  that  I  think  of  it, 

'Tis  he  who  in  the  English  park  but  yesterday 

Had  followed  you. 

Ninette.          'Twas  he  who  sung. 

Ninon.  You  know  that? 

Ninette.  I  was  listening. 

Ninon.     I  thought  he  was  so  handsome! 

Ninette.  So  tender,  I  believed  him! 


WHAT    MAIDENS   DREAM      193 

Ninon.     We'll  tell  him  what  he  is,  my  dear; 

We  must  await  him  here. 

Ninette.  Willingly  stay  we  here. 

Ninon.  How,  think  you, 

does  he  look? 

Ninette.     Dark,  with  large  eyes  and  with  a  fine 
mustache. 

We  shall  avenge  ourselves  most  tellingly. 

Ninon.     Dark,  and  yet  pale — some  idle  muske- 
teer. 

A  pretty  lesson  he  will  learn  from  us! 

Ninette.     Well-formed,    a    hand    that's    white, 
well-bred,  and  yet, 

My  dear,  he  is  a  monster  we  should  fear. 

Ninon.     Fine  teeth,  bright  eyes.    Oh,  bring  the 
monster  here, 

And  he  shall  hear  me  talk. 

Ninette.     And  so  refined  in  speech !    I  wish  him 
here. 

Ninon.     To  tell  him  in  two  words    .     .     . 

Ninette.  To  have  him  understand     . 

Ninon.     He  looked  so  love-lorn,  if  one  were 
fooled     . 

Ninette.     Oh,  good  Heavens!  some  one's  com- 
ing; is  it  he? 

Ninon.     'Tis  he — 'tis  he,  my  dear! 

(Silvio  enters,  his  face  covered  by  his  man- 
tle, and  sword  in  hand. ) 

Ninette  (seeing  that  he  falters).     I  pray  you, 
come  this  way,  sir! 


194      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

(Irus  enters,  sword  in  hand,  from  one  side; 

the  Duke  Laertes  from  the  other.) 
Irus.     Hallo!  what  noise  is  this? 

(Laertes  and  Silvio  cross  swords.) 
Irus  (interposing  himself).     My  Lord,  demand 

if  he's  a  gentleman. 
Laertes    (in  the  darkness  giving  Irus  a  blow 

with  the  flat  of  his  sword).    No,  no,  it  is  a 

thief! 
Irus  (falling).     Aye!  aye!  he's  murdered  me. 

(Flora  empties  out  of  the  window  a  bucket- 
ful of  water  over  the  head  of  Irus. ) 
Help !  help !    I'm  being  drowned.    Huh !  I'm  wet 

through 

And  through. 

(Laertes  and  Silvio  withdraw.) 
Ninon.  What's  become  of  Silvio? 

Ninette.  Father  nowhere  I  see. 

(They  seek  about  and  come  upon  Irus.) 
The  Two.     Help!  'gainst  a  fool  assassin!    Here 

he  lies. 

( They  run  away. ) 
Irus  (alone,  lying  prone).     Yes,  yes,  don't  wait 

around;  once  on  my  feet, 
If  I  should  say  one  word  they'll  finish  me. 

(In  the  darkness.     Flora  entering,  comes 
upon  Irus,  whom  she  mistakes  for  Silvio. ) 
Flora.     Is  that  you,  my  Lord  Silvio? 
Irus  (aside).  Let  her  believe  it. 

'Tis  I— I'm  Silvio. 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      195 

Flora  (recognizing  Irus).     Indeed,  you  did  re- 
ceive 

A  rapier  stroke  or  two?    Into  this  closet  step. 
(She  pushes  him  through  an  open  window.) 

Ninette  (coming  upon  Silvio,  at  the  end  of  the 
balcony).     Enter  within  this  room,  or  you 
are  lost. 
(She  locks  him  in  her  room.) 


SCENE  III 

(A  chamber.    Day  is  dawning.    Irus,  stepping 
out  of  a  closet,  Silvio  out  of  a  wardrobe.) 

Irus.     I  hear  no  more  a  sound. 

Silvio.  No  more  a  soul  I  see. 

Irus.     By  the  great  God!  monsieur,  what  are 

you  doing  here? 

Silvio.     That  is  a  question  which  is  mine  also. 
Irus.     Oh,  as  you  like,  but  mine  has  right  of 

way. 

Silvio.     I  leave  it  to  you,  then,  with  no  reply. 
Irus.     Oh,  so!    I'll  answer  it.    I'm  in  my  place. 
It's  not  by  climbing  o'er  a  terrace  wall 
That  hither  I  am  come,  like  any  thief. 
I  come,  God's  body !  like  any  man  of  pluck. 
I  do  not  hide  myself. 

Silvio.  You  step  forth  from  a  closet. 

Irus.     If  you  require  proof  of  what  I  say, 


196      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

I  am  your  man,  my  little  country  lordling. 
Silvio.     However,  as  for  you,  you  crow  too  loud. 

(He  starts  to  go.) 

Irus.     By  blood  and  death !  my  little  gentleman, 
You  must  be  taught  your  betters  to  respect. 
So  that's  your  way  of  picking  up  a  glove! 
Silvio.     Monsieur,  you  bore  me  with  your  idle 

scene. 

Of  what  you  shout  I  neither  know  nor  care. 
Irus.     'Twill  not  be  best  for  you  to  tread  on 

me. 

For,  God  alive!  I'm  not  afraid  of  four. 
For,  ventrebleu!  I'd  swallow  you  alive. 
Silvio.     Look    here,    my    dear    monsieur,    let's 

rather  go  and  fight. 

If  you  continue  thus,  I'll  mar  your  face. 
Irus.      Mordieu!      Don't   think    I'm   wavering 

at  all. 
Laertes   (behind  the  scenes).     Ninette!     I  say 

Ninon ! 

Irus.        My  father!    Not  a  word. 
Let  us  escape,  monsieur;  we'll  meet  again. 

(He  r centers  the  closet,  and  Silvio  the  ward- 
robe. ) 

Laertes.     Ninon!  Ninon! 

Ninon  (entering).     Father,  after  the  horrid  tale 
That's  been  enacted  here,  your  pardon  I  await. 
Silvio  no  more  I  love.    Unhappy  shall  I  live, 
And  it  is  my  resolve  with  Irus  to  be  wed. 

(She  falls  upon  her  knees.) 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      197 

Laertes.     I'm  charmed  that  you  no  longer  care 

for  him. 

What  novel,  Ninon,  have  you  lately  read? 
Ninette  (entering,  falls  upon  her  knees  on  the 

opposite  side).     Oh,  father  dear!  after  the 

awful  scene 

To  which  these  walls  last  night  bore  witness, 
My  uttermost  I'll  do  to  bear  my  fate; 
My  lover  false  I  hate;  I  hate  myself. 
If  you  consent  to  it,  I'll  Irus  wed. 
Laertes.     My  little   ones,   there's   nothing   I'd 

refuse. 

You  have  offended  me ;  I  love  you  just  the  same ; 
Indeed,  I  will  not  hinder  your  desires. 
Now  to  your  rooms  retire;  to-night,  at  eventide, 
The  assembled  family  you'll  find  below, 
And  since  the  two  of  you  can  not  wed  one, 
Irus  shall  make  his  choice;  and  now  be  good. 
Remember  all  misfortune  has  an  end. 
Now  go  you,  take  your  leave. 

(He  goes  off;  Ninon  and  Ninette  follow 
him. ) 

SCENE  IV 
(Irus,  opening  the  closet;  Silvio.) 

Irus.     You  have  overheard? 

Silvio.    Perfectly,  monsieur,  and  I  am  stupefied ! 

Which  one  will  you  select? 

Irus.  I  render  no  account. 


198      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Silvio.     Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  beg  that  you  will 
state 

Which  of  the  sisters  I  can  woo  myself. 

Irus.     I  do  not  know,  monsieur;  I  must  reflect. 

Silvio.     More   pleasing   is   Ninette   to   you,   it 
seems, 

Irus.     You've  said  it ;  it  was  she  I  did  prefer. 

Silvio.     'Tis  well.    And  now,  let's  go  and  fight. 

Irus.     I've  said  to  you,  monsieur,  I  must  re- 
flect. 
(Exeunt.) 


SCENE  V 

(The  Garden.    Laertes,  Irus,  Ninette,  Spadille, 
Quinola. ) 

Laertes  (alone).     O  Lord!  two  daughters  hast 

thou  given  me; 

I  ne'er  set  watch  to  hem  my  treasure  in ; 
Thou  hast  entrusted  me  with  their  sweet  love ; 
Never  have  I  encroached  on  their  virginity, 
Nor  marred  the  golden  wings  of  innocence. 
I've  suffered  in  their  souls  Thy  will  to  grow; 
The  vigilance  of  man  is  weak  at  best. 
Thine  own  it  is,  O  Lord !  that  never  sleeps. 
My  children  are  from  thee ;  I  am  their  sire ; 
I  but  desired  to  give  to  them  a  dear  friend. 
Now  fully  grown,  made  beautiful  by  Thee, 
Within  their  childish  arms,  with  filial  love, 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      199 

They  have  embraced  their  brother  with  white 

locks ; 

Their  vigor  has  lent  strength  unto  his  soul; 
Their  youthful  sweetness  clings  about  his  life, 
Compelling  slower  steps  unto  the  tomb; 
Nature  to  them  her  mystery  doth  unfold. 
When  falls  this  luscious  fruit,  'twill  shake  the 

dust 

Of  gold  that  covers  Love's  enraptured  wings. 
Love  plucks  these  buds  from  off  their  quivering 

stems. 

I  place  them  in  your  care,  my  God!  these  hearts, 
And  if  deserved,  vouchsafe  them  happiness. 

( Two  pistol-shots  are  heard. ) 
What  quarreling  is  here?    Why  that  report? 

(Irus  enters,  his  head  enveloped  in  his  hand- 
kerchief; Spadille  bearing  his  hat,  and 
Quinola  his  peruke. ) 

Now  why  the  devil  do  you  play  the  fool, 
My  nephew? 

Irus.     I  am  dead.    He  aimed  at  me,  just  now. 
Laertes.     'Twas  early  in  the  day  for  fuddling 

you. 

Irus.     But  only  see  my  hat !  there  is  his  shot. 
Laertes.     Oh!  then  it  is  your  hat  that's  dying, 

but  not  you. 

(Enter  Ninon  and  Ninette,  both  robed  as 

nuns.) 

And  now,  what  mean  for  us  these  vestal  robes? 
Is  this,  perchance,  an  hospital  for  fools? 


200      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Ninon.     Dear  father,  please  allow  us  two  poor 

girls 

To  go  and  end  our  days  in  convent  walls. 
Laertes.     Ha!   that's   the   quarter   whence   the 

wind  doth  blow? 
Ninette.     My  Lord,  your  daughters  are  indeed 

condemned ; 

They  ne'er  shall  have  a  husband  save  their  God. 
Laertes.     Irus,  my  dear,  behold  your  lost  do- 
main. 

One  always  takes  the  bad  to  save  from  worse; 
My  daughters  would  prefer  to  marry  God,  than 

you. 

Arise,  my  children;  I  am  gratified 
To  see  you  both  in  love  with  Silvio. 
Enter  my  home.    This  is  a  day  of  joy. 
And  you,  my  dear  young  fellow,  change  your 

vest. 
Irus.     Have  I  some  blood  upon  me?    My  ear, 

it  hurts. 

Spadille.     Yes,  monsieur. 
Quinola.  No,  monsieur. 

Irus.  I  acted  well  my  part. 

(Exeunt.) 

SCENE  VI 
(The  Terrace.    Ninon.    Silvio  on  a  bench.) 

Silvio.     Listen,  Ninon,  I'm  in  no  way  to  blame; 
For  this  romance  has  naught  of  truth  in  it, 
Save  my  heart's  love  I  feel  convulsing  me. 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      201 

Ninon.     Hush,  you;  I've  made  a  vow  I'd  love 

you  not. 

Silvio.     By  mistake  of  Flora  it  was  done, 
That  last  night's  letter  had  the  same  address ; 
'Twas  in  directing  them  I  made  mistake; 
By  slip  of  pen  your  sister's  name  I  wrote. 
Your  own,  so  like  yourself,  resembles  hers. 
The  hand's  not  firm,  alas!  when  trembles  heart, 
And  I  was  trembling,  just  as  you  are,  child. 
Ninon.     What  purpose  could  they  serve,  letters 

alike? 

I'd  listen  well  with  all  the  ears  I  have, 
If  you'd  deceive  me  not  with  words  so  sweet. 
Silvio.     Ninon,  I  love  you,  on  my  bended  knees ! 
Ninon.    When  one  sends  off  a  note,  one  reads  it, 

sir; 

When  one  recopies  it,  the  draft's  destroyed. 
It's  not  so  hard  to  rightly  pen  a  name. 
But,  how  am  I  to  trust  you,  Silvio? 
You  do  not  answer  aught. 
Silvio.  I  love  you,  Ninon. 

Ninon.     When  one  is  blameless,  his  defense  is 

good. 

The  day  you  sang  in  such  a  tender  tone, 
Quite  well  you  knew  my  name;  I  heard  you 

sing. 

My  sister  knows  quite  well  that  she  was  kissed, 
When  venturing  in  the  park,  by  one  like  you. 
As  to  the  letter  with  its  wrong  address, 
How  could  you  mix  my  sister's  name  with  mine? 


202      WHAT   MAIDENS    DREAM 

Consider,  then,  what  shameful  thing  it  is 

To  serenade  Ninon,  and  kiss  Ninette? 

Silvio.     'Tis  you,  Ninon,  I  only  truly  love; 

Your  eyes  of  diamond,  and  ruby  lips, 

The   rose-bloom   of   your   cheeks,    your   pearly 

teeth, 

Your  tender  glance,  is  happiness  complete. 
Ninon.     What  would  one  say  to  argument  like 

this? 

Silvio.     Your  form  as  plaint  as  a  verdant  palm ; 
Your  tresses  light  as  are  the  flakes  of  fire 
That  upward  fly  from  new-created  flame; 
They  crown  your  ivory  brow  all  shining  white ; 
Your  eyes  are  full  of  light,  like  amber  waves 
On  shores  of  Niemen;  limpid  is  their  glance 
As  drop  of  dew  on  pomegranate  flower. 
Ninon.     Your  own,  my  friend,  are  drowning  in 

their  tears. 
Silvio.     Your  voice  rings  sweeter  than  a  fairy 

song; 

Your  nature  like  harmonious  music  thrills ; 
From   you   comes   happiness    as   though    from 

heaven. 

Let  me  but  kiss  the  sandal  of  your  foot, 
Let  me  but  bask  in  light  of  your  sweet  eyes. 
Do  not  wed  Irus,  and  I'll  be  content 
To  linger  here  in  silence  by  your  side, 
My  hand  within  your  hand,  to  walk  through 

life, 
To  feel  each  day  my  heart  in  rapture  beat   .    .    . 


WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM      203 

Ninon.  Hush,  you;  I've  made  a  vow  I'd  love 
you  not. 

SCENE  VII 

(A  salon.  The  Duke  Laertes  seated  on  a  plat- 
form; Irus  on  his  right,  in  a  crimson  suit, 
his  sword  in  hand.  Silvio  on  his  left.  Spa- 
dille,  Quinola,  standing.) 

Laertes.     Behold  me  on  my  throne  seated,  a 

judge. 

At  my  feet,  innocence  may  refuge  seek. 
Irus  my  headsman  is;  confessor,  Silvio; 
Lord  justices  for  honor  of  the  home. 
Chamberlain  Quinola,  bring  my  daughters  two. 

(Ninon  and  Ninette  enter,  dressed  as  shep- 
herdesses. ) 
Ninon.     'Tis  in  mine  own,   as   in  my  sister's 

name, 

That  I  declare  unto  your  Lordship  high 
The  unalterable  resolve  we  have  decided  on. 
Laertes.     Look,  how  the  cloister's  garb  has  been 

transformed ! 
Ninette.     Far  from  the  world  we'll  live,  in  lands 

remote, 

Watching  our  sheep,  along  the  streamlet's  edge; 
We'll  spin  soft  wool,  just  as  your  vassals  do; 
Here  we  renounce  our  just  inheritance. 
We  know,  my  lord,  that  anger,  justified, 
Gives  you  the  right  your  children  to  forget. 


204      WHAT    MAIDENS    DREAM 

Laertes.     You're  coming,  aren't  you,  sometimes 
to  dine? 

Ninette.     We  crave  from  all  a  lasting  solitude; 

We  only  ask  to  end  our  days  in  peace ; 

If  he  that  led  us  ill  should  once  offend, 

Our  counsel,  seigneur,  you  should  write  the  king. 

Laertes.     The  king,  were  I  to  write,  would  an- 
swer me 

That  he  is  too  engaged  with  cares  of  state. 

So,  all  that  I  can  do  is,  call  the  mayor, 

And  this  I've  done,  for  he's  to  sup  with  us. 
(Enter  a  mayor  and  notary.) 
(To  Ninon.) 

Go,  darling,  and  embrace  your  Silvio. 

I  give  a  father's  blessing  to  you  both. 
(To  Ninette.) 

You  will  not  go  away,  my  sweet  Ninette ; 

Do  you  your  brother  kiss — you  both  are  one. 
(To  Irus.) 

Irus,  my  son,  I  hope  your  head's  improved, 

Be  happy,  too;  your  coat  becomes  you  well. 
SEPTEMBER,  1 832. 


THE   CUP   AND   THE   LIP 
DRAMATIC   POEM 

Between  the  cup  and  the  lip  there  is  yet  place  for  a  mis- 
hap.— Ancient  Proverb. 

CHARACTERS 

FRANK,  a  Huntsman. 
STRANIO,  a  Count. 
GUNTHER,  a  Knight. 
FRANK'S  Lieutenant. 
MONNA  BELCOLORE. 
DEIDAMIA. 
Mountaineers,  Knights,  Monks,  People. 

DEDICATION 
To  M.  ALFRED  T 


THIS  poem,  dear  friend,  I  dedicate  to  you: 
Something  approaching  to  a  tragedy, 
A  spectacle;  in  short,  a  quire  of  paper. 
Now  I  shall  sleep  until  the  devil  calls. 
'Tis  good  to  sleep,  but  ignoble  to  yawn. 
I've  made  three  thousand  verses:  that  is  good. 
But,  one  to  his  profession  must  keep  close. 
Yet  what  a  singular  and  sad  content 
A  manuscript  produces !    On  my  table 
All  I  was  writing  seemed  so  very  fine, 
But  now,  indeed,  I  dare  not  look  at  it. 

205 


206  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

While  working,  every  nerve  and  fiber  keen 
Vibrates  as  does  a  lyre  that  has  been  tuned. 
With  every  word  one's  being  fairly  thrills, 
And,  pride  aside,  that's  really  how  one  feels. 
One  does  not  work:  he  listens,  and  he  waits, 
Like  an  unknown  who  speaks  in  quiet  tones. 
At  times  one  stands  all  night  on  certain  spot, 
Without  one  motion,  like  a  man  of  stone, 
Or  like  a  child  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes, 
Who  fears  to  soil  them  or  profane  himself; 
And   then — and   then — in   short!     One's   head 

aches  so! 

What  strange  awakening !    How  lame  one  feels ! 
It  seems  that  Mercury  has  f all'n  from  heaven ! 
It  is  the  effect  produced  by  wantonness, 
The  body  sated,  then  the  soul  awakes. 
In  tears  the  spirit  lifts  the  shroud  of  joy, 
To  find  the  living  being  but  a  corpse. 
The  spirit  gone,  the  body  is  but  clay ; 
It  is  the  human  bier;  we  take  a  look, 
We  see  a  face,  then,  closing  lid  again, 
Remember  nothing  but  its  sufferings. 

If  all  but  ended  there!    Oh,  thought  supreme! 
Like  Jesus,  crowned  with  flame  invisible, 
Having  just  feasted  with  the  Pharisee. 
At  times  the  host  sees  aureole  of  flame 
Crowning  his  guest  divine,  which  fades  away. 
He  says  to  Son  of  God:  Are  you  His  son? 
Is  it  not  possible,  my  honored  guest, 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  207 

That  your  familiar  daemon's  not  of  heaven? 

There  is  no  question  in  correcting  faults 

Like  commentator  studying  a  verse, 

Nor  chewing  cud,  like  ruminating  ox. 

Enough,  indeed,  of  vermin  are  on  hunt, 

And  many  sift  a  tale  unfortunate, 

As  Spanish  shepherds  scan  a  leprous  dog. 

To  think  one  holds  an  apple  of  bright  gold, 

Yet  press  a  turnip  tenderly  to  heart ! 

That,  my  dear  friend,  will  lead  an  author  straight 

To  suicide  or  to  infanticide. 

Then  rhymers,  as  you  see,  before  they  write, 
Have  dim  ideas,  and  like  lovers  are, 
Beside  the  fair  one  as  yet  unpossessed. 
We  follow  her,  whose  every  turn  enchants; 
We  stir  the  fire,  and  in  the  ashes  gaze, 
Yet  see  her  flit,  a  salamander  sweet; 
Each  word  addressed  her  is  a  billet-doux ; 
We  give  her  suppers;  this,  you  know,  is  true 
(You  could,  if  need  were,  sup  with  a  princess). 
Once  she  surrenders,  then  the  charm  has  ceased; 
We  see  the  swallow  dying  in  her  cage, 
And  hope  for  some  sweet  memory  of  love. 
We  keep  the  perfume  as  we  pluck  the  flower. 
There  is  no  love  but  has  some  souvenir. 

When  the  young  maiden  in  the  near-by  spring 
'Neath  the  while  lilies  plunges  joyfully, 
She  tarries  in  the  sun,  with  white  soft  hands 


208  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Fondling  her  beautiful  yet  dripping  hair, 

Emerging  from  the  wave  like  Venus  crowned, 

Covered  with  rubies  like  a  Persian  blade; 

Her  mother  on  her  forehead  kisses  her, 

And  feels  the  freshness  of  her  daughter's  blood; 

But  when  a  poet  in  a  fountain  springs, 

He's  like  a  poacher  harried  on  the  plain, 

Who,  drinking  water,  then  must  run  and  hide. 

For  my  part,  I  care  not  for  criticism; 

Fly  though  it  may,  it  seldom  has  a  sting. 

Last  year  they  called  me  Byron's  copyist; 

You  know  me,  and  you  know  it  is  not  so. 

I  loathe  as  death  the  state  of  plagiarist ; 

My  glass,  though  small,  from  it  alone  I  drink. 

The  best  I  know  is,  be  an  honest  man, 

And  true  is  this,  I  nothing  disinter. 

Not  being  in  love  with  public  livery, 

I  ne'er  became  a  party  pamphleteer. 

Besides,  I  never  yet  have  made  pretense 

To  ape  the  century  or  its  passions  mad. 

Sad  trade  it  is  to  follow  the  dull  crowd, 

Shout  louder  than  the  leaders,  and  keep  pace, 

A-hanging  on  the  coat-tails  of  the  mob. 

One's  always  dry  when  he's  got  naught  to  drink. 

How  many  people  shout  for  liberty, 

Who  lauded  kings,  or  hero  of  Brumaire ! 

How  many  people  echoing  vox  populi, 

Extol  the  god  they  once  had  buffeted! 

I  label  them  with  name  of  knavishness. 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  209 

Such  is  the  world,  they  say,  "  then  'tis  to  laugh." 
Abhorrent  trade,  abhorrent  artisan. 
You  think  it  fine?    I  think  it  damnable! 
I  ne'er  have  sung  the  songs  of  peace  or  war; 
The  century's  shame  does  not  belong  to  me. 
'Tis  better  if  'tis  right,  then  worse  if  wrong. 
All  ask  I  is  that  I  may  have  repose 
Amid  the  tumult,  and  fear  not  the  time 
When  an  opinion  will  become  remorse. 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  my  fatherland. 

This  I  admit,  and  more,  for  Spain  I  love, 

Turkey  and  Italy,  and  even  Greece, 

Nor  Persia  I  dislike,  think  the  Hindus 

Are  very  honest  fellows,  who  can  drink  as  we. 

Cities  I  hate,  the  pavements,  tenements, 

All  that  leads  to  foul  gregariousness ; 

To  live  between  four  doleful,  smothering  walls, 

Head  under  beam  and  feet  above  a  grave. 

You  ask  me  if  I'm  not  a  Catholic. 

I  answer,  Yes — yet  love  the  god  Nesu; 

Tartak  and  Pimpocan  seem  faultless,  too; 

What  say  you  of  Parabavastuw? 

Bida  I  like;  Khoda's  a  fellow  good; 

And  as  for  Kichatan,  I  nothing  have  to  say; 

Fierce  Michapous  is  yet  a  handsome  god. 

Lawyers  and  liars  and  hypocrites  I  hate; 

They  serve  Pimpocan,  or  Mahomet  false. 

You  may  for  me  assure  their  ministers 

That  where  I  go  I  know  not,  nor  do  care. 


210  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  fair  wisdom's  ways. 

Why,  yes,  indeed,  and  also  a  good  smoke. 

I  love  Bordeaux,  especially  when  it's  old, 

And  all  true  wines,  for  they  sweet  love  create. 

I  hate  the  bigots — the  deceitful  race, 

Of  hypocrites  of  manner,  insolents, 

Who   don   their   virtues   with   their   white   kid 

gloves. 

Satan  was  old  when  he  became  a  monk. 
I'll  be  so  old,  when  that  day  will  arrive, 
That  it  will  be  the  day  on  which  I've  died. 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  sweet  nature's  moods. 
Yes ;  and  love  also  the  enamouring  arts. 
Venus  to  me  is  something  marvelous. 
Is  not  a  living  woman  of  fine  form 
Better  than  purest  marble,  you  will  say? 
The  woman  speaks,  'tis  true;  the  sweet  statue 
Is  silent,  and  the  silence  I  prefer. 
I  hate  the  whining  of  ecstatic  bards, 
Heroes  of  landscapes,  lakes,  of  small  cascades, 
That  breed  without  a  name,  which  can  not  move 
Without  a  flood  of  verses,  tears,  and  notes. 
Nature  is  doubtless  as  she  seems  to  us. 
Perchance,  indeed,  they  nature  understand, 
But  they  are  still  to  me  inscrutable. 

Do  I  love  riches,  you  inquire  of  me. 
Yes;  and  I  also  love  small  fortunes,  too, 
But,  above  all,  I  love  my  mistresses ; 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  211 

Fortune  to  me  is  only  liberty. 
She  gives  the  power  of  moving  o'er  the  world ; 
Soon  as  possessed  she  must  be  answered  for; 
Her  greatest  boon  is  freedom  to  the  will. 
I  hate  flat  feet  as  I  hate  covetousness ! 
Give  me  the  poaching  highwayman  instead. 
I  hate  the  gilded  wind  that  fills  the  fool ; 
In  hundred  years,  I  fear,  it  may  be  said 
Our  century  of  gold  was  only  brass. 

You  ask  me  if  there's  anything  I  love. 
To  this  I  answer  you  as  Hamlet  would ; 
Doubt  his  Ophelia  all  that  you  may  please, 
Doubt  the  sky's  light,  the  perfume  of  the  rose; 
Doubt  virtue,  yea,  doubt  day  and  night; 
Doubt  all  the  world,  but  never  doubt  of  love. 
To  that,  my  dear,  pray  turn,  as  heliotrope, 
Which  dies,  with  eyes  fixed  on  beloved  sun, 
And,  like  the  misanthrope,  prefer  to  all 
My  love's  sweet  song  and  that  of  King  Henri. 
Doubt,  if  you  wish,  the  creature  that  you  love, 
Woman,  or  dog,  but  not  sweet  love  itself. 
Love  is  to  soul  as  sunlight  to  the  world. 
To  love  is  great;  the  mistress  matters  not. 
What  of  the  flask,  if  wine  intoxicates? 
Make  life  a  dream  without  awakening. 
If  true  that  Schiller  but  Amelia  loved, 
Goethe  but  Christiane;  Julia,  Rousseau. 
May  earth  be  light  above  them!     They  have 
loved ! 


212  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

I  fear,  my  friend,  you  find  my  rhymes  are  bad; 

There  are  some  things  in  which  I'm  not  re- 
formed. 

I  have  no  more  a  system,  and  love  ease ; 

I  always  thought  it  shameful,  lines  to  pad. 

As  to  some  folk  that  ply  that  handicraft, 

I  see  resemblance  to  a  carpenter. 

To  the  new  poets  glory,  who  give  rhyme 

One  letter  more  than  formerly  required. 

Bravo!  'Tis  one  more  nail  on  which  hangs 
thought. 

The  olden  liberty  Voltaire  decreed 

Was  hitherto  but  good  for  feeble  minds. 

A  cry  of  pain  ran  once  through  Italy 

When,  at  the  altars,  Angelo  expired. 

With  dying  century  came  melancholy, 

As  a  presentiment  to  shake  old  age. 

Art-loving  Angelo  had  left  the  earth, 

Seeking  some  other  heaven,  as  nursling  seeks 

The  lips  and  breast  of  mother,  its  dear  friend. 

Art  fell  with  him,  and  his  resounding  name 

The  Tuscans  hold  in  deathless  memory. 

To-day  fair  art  is  dead;  she  reigns  no  more. 

Now  literature  a  thousand  reasons  hath 

To  speak  of  murders,  of  the  drowned,  the  dead. 

Describing  wantons,  she  is  waxing  fat ; 

Dwelling  in  sewers,  now  her  soul's  decayed. 

Hail,  banal  soul  in  tatters  well-befouled, 
In  having  wooed  you  I  must  tell  the  truth. 


213 


I  want  to  introduce  your  better  parts, 

To  speak  of  you  as  art,  where  you  have  taught 

The  world  to  think  you  but  a  chiffonnier. 

An  artist  is  a  man ;  he  writes  for  men ; 

Priest  of  the  temple,  he  has  liberty; 

His  tripod  is  the  universe,  his  theme  is  life; 

For  incense,  pain,  and  love,  and  harmony; 

The  heart  his  victim,  and  the  truth  his  god. 

The  artist  is  a  soldier,  who  deserts 

The  ranks  of  life,  that,  on  his  own  account, 

By  one  of  divers  roads,  he  may  command. 

The  one,  as  Calderon  or  as  Merimee, 

Covers  reality  with  leaden  mask. 

He  shapes  at  first  the  human  silhouette, 

With  stony  stare,  and  makes  a  mold  of  it, 

From  which  comes  forth  a  naked  effigy, 

Hard  as  the  plaster  that  has  filled  the  cast, 

Hard  as  the  bronze  of  it,  as  hard  as  gold; 

And  what  results  from  such  a  somber  mask, 

Seek  you  the  moral,  the  philosophy, 

Of  classic,  hieratic  strenuousness? 

The  form  is  to  be  worshiped,  not  the  soul, 

And  to  the  reader  this  excuse  is  given; 

Dream,  if  you  will,  but  this  is  all  he  was. 

The  other  Shakespeare,  or  the  great  Racine, 

Ascends  the  tripod,  and,  with  lamp  in  hand, 

Writes  with  gold  pen  the  story  of  the  heart. 

For  you  he  searches  it,  that  he  may  write 

All  he  has  felt,  and  what  he  there  has  found ; 

Still  more,  in  finding  it,  what  he  has  dreamed : 


214  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Action  for  him  is  but  a  mold  for  thought. 
Hamlet  kills  Clodius,  and  Duncan,  Macbeth. 
What  matters  cause  of  strife,  if  flash  of  sword 
Can  show  us,  in  the  dark,  the  bloody  face? 
The  first  displays  to  you  a  skeleton; 
You  think,  how  beautiful,  if  clothed  with  flesh, 
With  all  the  supple  muscles  of  th'  athlete. 
Such  bones  so  gracious  might  be  thus  o'erlaid. 
The  second  doth  unfold  a  glittering  robe, 
Muscles  unconquered,  flesh  that  palpitates, 
And  leaves  you  guessing  of  what  hidden  force 
Gives  life  to  such  an  outward  pageant. 
The  former  sees  effect,  the  latter  cause. 
Upon  that  double  law  the  whole  world  rests, 
And  God  alone  can  see  it  all  at  once. 

For  me,  when  that  I  see,  I  warn  you,  friend, 

My  vision  really  is  never  much; 

I  love  to  see  too  clearly  to  see  long. 

"  Man,  he  delights  me  not,  nor  woman,  yet." 

But  were  I  free  to  choose  a  certain  route, 

I'd  choose  the  latter,  and  would  drown,  no  doubt. 

I'm  in  a  humor  now  to  dream  a  lot, 
But  here  I  stop,  avoiding  proving  it. 

I  know  not  whither  leads  this  ceaseless  talk; 
I  wished  to  write  a  word  to  dedicate 
My  poem  to  my  honorable  friend, 
Monsieur — and  so  forth,  it  is  put  always, 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  215 

And  then  long-winded  adulation  flows, 
I've  made  mine  rather  long,  I  must  confess. 
Some  may  imagine  I  have  preface  writ. 
I  never  read  them;  nor  do  you,  I  think. 


INVOCATION 

To  love,  to  drink,  to  hunt,  ah,  such  is  life 
For  sons  of  Tyrol,  heroic  and  proud ! 
Brave  mountaineers  like  eagles  bold  and  free! 
Sky,  where  the  sun  disdains  the  sunken  plain, 
That  peaceful  ocean,  whose  great  waves  are  hills ! 
Peopled  with  echoes,  sympathetic  sky. 
The  pirate  of  the  mountains  whistling  goes, 
Who  to  the  winds  throws  heart,  and  careless 

song; 

And  distant  Venice  his  horizon  gilds, 
Rugged  Helvetia  guards  his  country-side. 
The  south  wind  brings  thee  beauty,  my  Tyrol, 
The  north  winds  bring  thee  Liberty! 

Hail,  land  of  ice !  enthroned  among  the  clouds, 
Land  of  the  wanderer  and  traveling  deer, 
Land  without  olive-trees,  where  grow  no  vines, 
Where  harvests  do  not  gladden  thee  with  cheer; 
Mother,  thy  nurslings  drain  a  flinty  breast, 
But  still  they  love  thee.    'Neath  the  bluish  snow, 
By  misty  lakes  their  chalets  greet  the  sun, 
That  does  not  tan  the  white  arms  of  the  maid. 


216  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Hail,  noble  land!    Simple  and  naive  art  thou, 
A  busy  land  that  does  not  love  the  arts, 
Nor  can  the  effeminate  dreamer  solace  thee; 
'Both  love  and  war  alone  strive  on  thy  soil. 
One  grows  not  old  in  thy  long  afternoons. 
And  if  at  times  thy  children,  in  the  vales, 
Mingle  a  song  with  sighing  of  the  reeds, 
It  proves  them  songsters,  like  the  merry  birds. 
What   hast   thou,    Tyrol?      Neither    gods,    nor 

wealth, 

Nor  poets,  temples,  nor  great  palaces, 
But  that  great  love  known  by  the  splendid  name 
Of  Liberty!    What  matters  to  the  mountaineer 
For  what  Germanic  despot,  as  a  slave, 
The  plainsman  tears  the  furrow  deep  and  wide? 
His  trade  is  not  to  drag  the  weary  plow; 
He  sleeps  upon  the  snow,  dines  when  he  kills, 
And  breathes  the  air  of  heaven  upon  his  hills. 

The  air  of  heaven,  pure  as  the  flame  of  fire ! 
Yes,  Liberty  in  cities  dies  of  filth. 
Vainly  you  plant  her  in  your  civil  wars, 
Vainly  you  sow  her  even  on  your  tombs ; 
That  tree  with  emerald  boughs  grows  not  so  low, 
But  on  the  mountain  height  she  stands  supreme! 

Would  you  be  free,  then  climb  to  Liberty ! 
Climb  to  her,  dreamers — she  will  not  descend! 
Take  gripping  sandal  and  the  ferruled  pick; 
And  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Liberty. 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  217 

With  every  step  the  nearer  she'll  appear, 

If  in  your  heart  you'll  feel  her  mighty  throbs. 

Tyrol,  no  bard  has  sung  thy  mountain  lands; 

Our  golden  muses  need  the  citron-trees. 

Thou  art  not  commonplace,  if  poverty 

Extends  lean  hand  to  hospitality. 

Poor  hostess,  welcome  me !  for  thou  art  worth 

All  Italy,  and  though  a  Messaline  in  rags, 

For  me  I  find  thee  virginal ;  that  grace 

Is  mine ;  for  I  to  slake  my  thirst  withal, 

I  need  a  stainless  stream,  both  clear  and  cold, 

But  wandering  dogs  go  to  the  water-trough. 

I  love  thee;  who  can  touch  thy  stainless  robe? 

And  not  like  Naples,  visitors  o'errun, 

With  ciceroni  for  thy  panderers. 

The  snow  falls  gently  on  thy  shoulders  bare. 
Be  mine.    I  love  thee.    When  virginity 
Departs  from  heaven,  I  shall  statues  love; 
Marble  is  better  far  than  Phryne  soiled, 
With   whom   the   famished   seek   their   lewdest 

meals, 
Who  makes  the  public  street  pass  through  her 

bed, 

Who  has  not  time  to  put  her  girdle  on 
'Twixt  noontide  loves  and  those  of  sable  night ! 


218  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 


ACT    THE    FIRST 

SCENE  I 

(A  public  square.    A  fire  blazing  in  the  midst. 
Hunters,  Frank.) 

Chorus.  As  pale  as  love,  and  all  with  tears  be- 
decked, 

The  silvery  feet  of  evening  tread  the  dew. 

Mists  climb  the  sky,  the  sun  in  flight  departs. 

Let  pleasure  wake,  the  night  shall  be  its  dawn ! 

Diana  guarded  our  swift  chase  afar. 

Beneath  the  loads  we  bend  with  sluggish  steps. 

For  us,  repose  and  rest !    The  glass  we  lift, 

Our  signal,  brethren,  to  begin  the  feast. 

Frank.  For  me,  I've  nothing  killed,  and  bram- 
ble, briar, 

Have  torn  my  hands.    Upon  the  dust  my  hound 

Could  lick  in  blood  the  traces  of  my  steps. 

Chorus.  The  days,  my  friend,  do  differ  each 
from  each. 

Draw  nigh,  make  one  in  our  glad  company. 

Good  friendship,  sir,  is  like  the  merry  cup 

That  by  the  fireside  goes  from  hand  to  hand. 

One  will  drink  deep  his  weal,  another  wo, 

And  Heaven  oblivion  casts  into  the  wine; 

I'm  happy  now  to-night,  to-morrow  you. 

Frank.  My  woes  are  mine,  and  yours  how  could 
I  take? 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  219 

I  have  not  learned  to  live  at  others'  cost; 
For  that  I'll  stay  till  men  cut  off  their  hands; 
I  sure  would  make  a  sorry  parasite ; 
For  only  fasting  long,  and  famine's  curse, 
Shall  make  me  run  to  scent  the  steam  of  feasts. 
I  am  the  better  marksman,  keen  of  eye, 
And  why  do  I  find  nothing?    Tell  me  that. 
Am  I  a  scarecrow?    Opportunity, 
The  strumpet,  gets  so  limping  lame  and  sore, 
And  then  so  bald,  by  dint  of  running  loose, 
That  none  can  catch  her,  seize  her  neck  and  nape ! 
Like  you,  I  hunt  the  roebuck  near  and  far; 
My  neighbor  shoots  it  ere  my  eye  beholds. 
Chorus.     And  if  your  neighbor,  why  reproaches 

loud? 

Community  engenders  human  strength. 
Anger  not  God.    It  is  the  reed  that  bends ; 
The  man  lacks  patience  and  the  lamp  lacks  oil, 
And  pride  in  anger  counsels  very  ill. 
Frank.     Community — a  word  to  stir  my  gall! 
Nor  yet  am  I  brought  down  to  beg  for  bread. 
Mordieu!    Here's  gold,  my  men,  enough  to  live! 
Mankind's  old  foe  may  follow,  if  he  will ; 
I'll  make  him  trot  a  very  pretty  race. 
A  man  must  be  a  bastard  if  he  tacks 
His  own  to  others'  woes.    Am  I  a  slave? 
The  social  compact's  no  affair  of  mine; 
I  did  not  sign  it  in  my  mother's  womb. 
If  others  little  own,  should  I  own  naught? 
Of  God  you  talk,  blaspheming  mine  the  while. 


220  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Ah,  pride  is  woman's  purity,  the  strength 
Of  warriors,  as  of  martyrs  on  the  cross, 
And  pride  is  virtue,  honor,  genius  too ; 
It  is  the  trace  of  beauty  left  in  life ; 
Uprightness  in  the  poor,  greatness  in  kings. 
I  fain  would  know  regarding  mortal  men, 
And  first  myself,  what  end  of  good  we  serve. 
You  see  pale  skies  beyond  the  lofty  hills? 
From  morn  to  eve,  all  round  the  toiling  throng 
Some  vast  alembics  which  men  cities  name ; 
Intrigues  and  passions,  perils,  joys  of  sense, 
All  life  is  there.    All  issues  forth,  comes  in. 
Elsewhere  dispersed,  here  all  is  centered  firm. 
His  life  man  presses,  he  would  quaff  its  wine, 
Like  those  who  crush  and  press  the  clustered 

grape. 
Chorus.     Some  dire  ambition,  Frank,  your  soul 

consumes. 

Your  haughty  poverty  abhors  itself; 
Yourself  you  hate,  in  all  this  kinglike  pride, 
And  hate  your  neighbor  who  is  like  to  you. 
Speak,  vagabond,  love  you  your  sire,  your  land? 
At  morning's  breath  feel  you  a  thrilling  heart? 
And  do  you  kneel  before  you  sink  to  sleep  ? 
What  blood  is  yours,  that  you  can  move  through 

life 

A  man  of  bronze,  so  that  pure  friendship,  love 
And  passion,  confidence  and  pity  sweet, 
Must  merely  glide  upon  a  senseless  flint, 
Like  drops  of  water  on  the  marble  smooth. 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  221 

111  lives  the  wretch  who  lives  but  for  himself. 
The  soul,  a  ray  from  heaven,  unseen,  in  thrall, 
In  donjons  dim,  is  racked  with  deadly  throes. 
She  seeks  her  sisters  from  her  exile's  gloom ; 
And  tears  and  songs  eternal  voices  are, 
Of  those  God's  daughters  calling  o'er  the  gulfs. 
Frank.     Sing,  then,  and  weep,  if  such  should  be 

your  will! 

My  malediction  is  no  awful  thing. 
I  give  it  to  you,  such  as  it  may  be. 
A  toast — a  toast  our  feast  to  dedicate! 
And  I  propose — »  (Taking  a  glass.) 

Bad  luck  to  new-born  babes! 
A  curse  on  labor !  curseo^  be  dreams  of  hope ! 
The  seed,  where  rolls  the  sweat  of  bony  arms! 
Cursed  be  the  ties  of  blood,  the  ties  of  life ! 
Cursed  the  family  and  society ! 
A  curse  on  homes,  and  on  the  city  too, 
And  malediction  on  our  fatherland! 
Another  Chorus  (issuing  from  a  house).     Who 
speaks — who  comes  to  fling  against  our  roof 
Such  monstrous,  clamoring  cries, 
And  sound  to  us  such  hideous  trumpet-calls 
Of  malediction?    Frank,  speak  out !    'Tisyou? 
You're  but  a  sluggard  filled  with  envious  pride. 
What  right,  to  come  and  torture  honest  folks? 
You  hate  our  calling,  Judas ;  we  hate  yours. 
And  why  not  wander  seeking  fortune's  trail, 
If  you  do  find  a  father's  roof  too  low? 
Your  pride  is  but  a  coffin,  leaden  sealed. 


222  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

You  think  you  punish  Heaven  with  petty  spite; 
And  this,  your  utmost  power,  to  stretch  these 

arms, 

And  curse  a  God  whose  eye  rests  not  on  you. 
Remember,  now,  that  prince  of  blasphemy, 
The  most  outrageous  fiend  of  all  the  fallen, 
Was  flung  from  heaven  ere  he  'gan  to  curse. 
All  the  hunters.     Now  why  decline  a  place  to 

feast  with  us? 

Frank  (to  one).     Alas!  my  noble  lord,  one  pit- 
tance grant, 

One  mite,  because  I  hunger  and  I  thirst ; 
A  little  money,  just  to  purchase  bread. 
Chorus.     Are  you  a  clown,  to  mock  your  own 

distress? 
Frank.     My  lord,  a  charming  mistress  sure  you 

have ; 

I  could  extol  her,  singing,  turn  by  turn, 
A  golden  mean  of  innocence  and  love. 
A  poor  man  ought  to  cheer  his  host  at  least, 
For,  after  all,  if  poor,  he  is  to  blame. 
But  think  you  it  is  nice  and  generous 
To  fling  some  paving-stones  on  drowning  men? 
Wake  not  to  vengeance  the  unfortunate. 
Chorus.     Some  somber  demon  preys  upon  your 

soul; 

Your  taunter  is  too  grim,  disconsolate. 
Frank.     For  if  these  wretches  cherish  aught  of 

pride, 
If  not  a  mold  of  merely  woman  clay, 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  223 

If  heart  they  have  and  hands,  or  simply  wear 
By  chance  some  weapon  hanging  at  the  belt. 
Chorus.     What  meaneth  this — a  challenge  for  a 

fight? 
Frank.     A  poniard  may  be  blunted,  thrusts  fall 

short, 

But  if  the  poor  man,  sick  of  weary  life, 
Resents  an  insult,  grasps  a  burning  brand, 
And  flies  to  hurl  its  fire  against  his  home  I 

(Picks  up  a  blazing  log  and  tosses  it  on  his 

cottage. ) 

The  hour  is  his :  it  is  his  father's  home, 
His  own  home,  too,  his  property,  the  tomb 
Of  day-dreams  and  of  lonely  tears  at  night. 
The  fire  must  stay  there,  for  he  kindled  it. 
Chorus.     Does  fever  craze  you?     Hold,  incen- 
diary ! 

With  one  foul  cast  you're  burning  all  our  town! 
Hold!     Where,   to-morrow,   shall  our  children 

rest? 
Frank.     Behold  me  on  the  threshold,  sword  in 

hand. 

Come  on,  and  were  you  now  a  host  in  arms, 
And  were  the  world  in  smoke  to  disappear, 
Thunder  and  blood,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him. 
The  first  that  dare  to  throw  one  drop  upon 
The    dunghill    straw!     Think   you,    if    I'm    a 

plague, 

To  chase  me  with  impunity,  a  hound? 
Did  you  not  bid  me  go,  my  fortune  seek? 


224  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

I  go.    You  bade  me.    You  would  never  go. 

"Tis  I  who  act.    Departing,  I  illuminate, 

To  have  the  pleasure,  as  I  wend  my  way, 

To  see  your  town  in  case  I  want  to  look. 

Here  is  no  deed  of  futile  madness.    They 

Who  call  me  idle,  and  a  man  of  pride, 

Are  truthful.    But  so  long  as  stands  this  thatch, 

This  cottage,  it  will  stand  my  monument. 

This  little  house,  these  walls  of  stone,  good  sirs, 

To  me  were  patrimony,  and  enough 

It  is  to  make  one  love  his  dunghill,  there 

For  twenty  years  to  sleep.    I  burn  it  now ! 

'Tis  I,  my  phantom  scattered  to  the  winds. 

And  now,  ye  winds,  you  only  have  to  blow : 

Full  often,  on  tempestuous  nights,  you  come 

To  shake  my  door,  to  call  aloud  my  name. 

I  come,  my  brothers,  now,  deliver  you 

My  head.    I  go,  and  God  shall  show  these  feet 

A  path,  or  Chance,  if  Chance  should  be  our  God. 

SCENE  II 
(A  plain.    Frank,  meeting  a  young  girl.) 

She.  Good  evening,  Frank.  Where  go  you? 
Lone  the  plain. 

Your  dogs,  and  where  are  they,  rash  moun- 
taineer? 

Frank.  Good  evening,  Deidamia.  You  have 
left 

Your  mother  where,  my  prudent?    Why  so  late? 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  225 

She.     I    gathered,    on   my   way,    a    bunch   of 

flowers — 
Sweet  roses.    Take  them  all,  to  bring  you  luck. 

(She  throws  them  to  him.) 
Frank.    How  gaily  she  runs  off!    Her  mother 

lives 

Near  me,  and  I  have  seen  the  child  grow  up 
In  beauty  innocent.    She  loves  me  not. 

SCENE  III 
(Dawn.    A  hollow  road  in  a  forest.) 

Frank  (sitting  on  the  grass).     And  when  they 

speak  the  latest  word,  and  when 
The  paltry  hut  of  luckless,  begging  Frank, 
Is  turned  to  cinders,  scattered  to  the  winds, 
Can  any  dream  his  fate?    That  doom  is  death! 
But  if  he  be  too  young,  and  loath  to  die? 
Ah,  misery!  and  havoc!    Fate  strides  on. 
A  Voice  (in  a  dream). 

Two  paths  there  are  in  life; 
A  lonely  path  of  flowers, 
Which  winds  through  shady  bowers. 
Exempt  from  grief,  from  strife; 

We  pass,  and  hardly  see 
The  brooklet  in  the  plain, 

Which  noiseless  seems  to  flee, 
The  sands  which  ne'er  retain. 
Another  like  the  torrent  falls 
In  everlasting  onward  dole, 


226  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Which   'neath   the   feet   of   prodigals 

Ixion's  rock  unceasing  roll. 
One  is  confined,  the  other  broad; 
One  dies,  the  other  then  begins; 
Of  patience  one,  the  narrow  road; 

That  other,  of  ambition's  sins. 
Frank  (in  a  dream). 
Ye  spirits,  if  ye  would  forebode  my  end, 
Wherefore  should  my  Creator,  God, 
Both  give  me  life,  and  after  downward  send 
Those  sparks  divine,  that  swiftly  burn 
My  heart  and  life  to  ashes  turn? 
Wherefore  the  fire  where  salamanders  bide? 
Wherefore  feel  I  this  heart  amazed  complain? 
'Tis  weak  the  quivering  flashes  to  constrain, 
Which,  heaven-descended,  far  above  would  ride. 
Voice. 
They  who  in  mad  ambition's  fires  consume, 

Who  seek  to  court  the  mighty  ones  of  earth, 
They  in  their  pride  have  taken  verge  and  room 
To  spurn  sweet  love  and  all  her  antic  mirth, 
Those  unlamented  and  without  desire, 

Who  die  forgotten  in  some  woman's  arms, 
They,  mountaineer,  with  all  the  soul's  bright  fire, 
Have  jeered  at  glory,  scorned  its  joys'  alarms. 
Frank. 

You  talk  of  greatness,  then,  of  glory  prate. 
Shall  I  win  treasure?     Shall  men's  memories 

keep 
To  distant  times  a  loving  thought  of  me? 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  227 

Make  answer — answer  ere  the  trance  abate. 
Unfold  the  things  to  happen,  but  that  sleep 

Within  futurity's  Cimmerian  sea. 
Voice. 
This   is   the    hour   when,    free   from    anxious 

thought, 

You  used  to  wake,  your  study  to  resume, 
And  meditation,  which  your  labors  brought 

In  lone  pursuit  of  love  chimeras'  doom. 
You  went  unto  that  solitary  cot, 

Where  Deidamia  watched  beside  the  hearth, 
Coming,  you  sat  above  the  embers  hot, 

And  told  of  woes  soon  lost  in  peaceful  mirth. 
You  had  no  hopes,  and  in  the  solitude 

You  loved  like  children;  habits  quickly  bring 
Each  day  their  teaching,  ope  at  every  word. 

Love's  path ;  o'er  each  poor  heart  is  habit  king. 
Frank.     Too  late,  ye  spirits;  I  have  burned  my 

cot. 

Voice.     Repent!  repent! 

Frank.     No,  no !    There's  naught — no  hope  sur- 
vives. 

Voice.     Repent!  repent! 

Frank.  I've  curses  on  my  father  brought. 

Voice.     Awake!  arise!  for  fortune's  hour  has 
come. 

(The  sun  appears.    Frank  awakens.    Stra- 
nio,  young  Count  Palatine,  and  his  mis- 
tress, Monna  Belcolore,  ride  by.} 
Stranio.     Get  up,  you  churl,  and  let  me  pass! 


228  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Frank.     You  wait  until  I  rise.     Now,  have  a 

care! 
Stranio.     Up,  hound.    Make  haste,  or  never  rise 

again ! 
Frank.     So-ho!    My  man  and  horse,  you're  not 

to  pass. 

Unsheathe  that  sword,  or  forfeit  is  your  life! 
Come,  parry  that! 

(They  fight;  Stranio  falls.) 
Belcolore.  What  is  the  name  you  bear? 

Frank.     Charles  Frank. 

Belcolore.  I  like  you.  Well  you  fight  for  life. 
Good  sir,  pray  tell  me  where  your  home  may  be. 
Frank.  The  Tyrol,  madame,  is  my  native  land. 
Belcolore.  They  tell  me  I  am  handsome;  now, 

do  you 

Agree  with  such  a  verdict? 

Frank.  No  star  more  lovely. 

Belcolore.     I'm    but    eighteen    years    old — and 

you? 

Frank.     Twenty  am  I. 
Belcolore.     Then  mount  the  horse;  and  come 

and  sup  with  me! 

(Exeunt.) 


228  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Frank.     You  wait  until  I  rise.     Now,  have  a 

care! 
Stranio.     Up,  hound.    Make  haste,  or  never  rise 

again ! 
Frank.     So-ho!    My  man  and  horse,  you're  not 

to  pass. 

Unsheathe  that  sword,  or  forfeit  is  your  life! 
Come,  parry  that! 

(Thty  fight;  Stranio  falls.) 
Belcolore.  What  is  the  name  you  bear? 

Frank.     Charles  Frank. 

Belcolore.  I  like  you.  Well  you  fight  for  life. 
Good  sir,  pray  tell  me  where  your  home  may  be. 
Frank.  The  Tyrol,  madame,  is  my  native  land. 
Bdcolore.  They  tell  me  I  am  handsome;  now, 

" 

.am  diiw  wqqus  oJ  amoo  brie  9&iod  aril  JnuoM  " 

nk,  star  more  lovely, 

but    eighteen    years    old — and 

Wj.     Tw>f»?v  urn  I 

the  horse;  and  come 
and  sup  with  me! 
reunt.) 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  229 


ACT   THE    SECOND 

SCENE  I 

(A  Salon.) 

Frank  (before  a  table  covered  with  gold  coin). 

Of  hidden  threads  controlling  human  life 
Thou,  gold,  art  subtlest  and  most  marvelous! 
O  primal  element,  tear  stolen  from  the  sun! 
Sole,  ever-living  God  among  false  gods, 
Medusa,  that  dost  change  the  heart  to  stone, 
And  turn  to  dust,  beneath  the  rose-queen's  feet, 
The  robe  of  innocent  virginity! 
Sublime  in  thy  corruption,  our  will's  key, 
Accept  my  wonder!     Speak,  aloud  proclaim, 
That  honor  is  a  word,  and  virtue  vain; 
That  man  possessing  thee  is  noble,  good; 
That  naught  but  thou  is  true.     Delirium 
Could  not  invent  so  wild,  audacious  dreams, 
So  monstrous,  far  removed  from  nature's  book, 
That  thou  couldst  not  with  dreadful  lever's  force 
Lift  up  an  universe  to  make  them  true. 
And  yet,  how  many  men  have  never  seen, 
Except  in  fancy,  what  I  see!    My  heart, 
Enchanted,  plunges  in  this  glittering  heap! 
All,  all  is  mine;  and  spheres  and  worlds  shall 

dance 


230  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

A  thousand  whirling  rounds  before  the  sun 
Again  shall  see  another  stroke  like  this. 
My  heart  is  overwhelmed.     I  comprehend 
What  makes  the  dying,  when  death's  chill  doth 

seize, 

Gloat  in  delight  o'er  hoarded  gold, 
And  why  old  men  hide  treasure  in  the  earth. 

(He  counts.) 

'Tis  fifteen  thousand,  and  the  rest  assured. 
What    fate    hath    brought    me    this    adventure 

strange? 

What  should  I  do  to-day,  to-morrow  what, 
Had  crazy  Stranio  never  crossed  my  path? 
I  slay  the  palatine,  his  mistress  win; 
Drink  deep  with  her ;  they  make  me  gamble,  too. 
I  should  have  lost,  I  gain — wine's  rapture  this. 
I  gain ;  I  quit  the  board.    The  stroke's  from  God. 

(Opens  a  window.) 

Oh,  could  I  see  myself  pass  by  below. 
As  I  looked  yesterday,  I,  Frank,  the  lord 
Of  this  abode,  possessing  treasured  gold, 
'Behold  pass  by  poor  Frank,  the  hunter  of  the 

hare, 

He  stretches  out  his  hand,  I  fling  him  gold. 
Here,  Frank,  poor  beggar,  take,  poor  wretch,  all 

this. 

(He  takes  a  handful  of  gold.) 
Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  heaven  and  earth 
Bestowed  on  me  no  more  than  what's  my  due, 
And  that  since  yesterday  I  own  the  world. 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  281 


SCENE  II 

(A    road.     Mountaineers   passing.      Hunting- 
song  in  the  distance.) 

Bold  huntsman,  what  see  you  above  the  vale? 
My  hounds  will  scratch  the  ground  to  find  the 

trail. 

Up,  up,  my  horsemen!    'Tis  the  chamois'  trace; 
The  chamois  rises.    Fair  my  mistress'  face! 
The  chamois  trembling  flies.    God  keep  my  dear ! 
The  chamois  checks  the  hounds  in  woodland  near. 
Ah,  could  I  touch  her  hand,  my  charming  sweet. 
Across  the  lawn  the  pack  and  chamois  fleet: 
Hallali,  my  comrades,  victory  is  mine; 
How  sweet  my  mistress,  and  her  eye  how  fine! 
Chorus.     Here  in  this  palace,  friends,  where  now 

we  stand, 

Abode  the  first,  the  last  man  of  the  land — 
Frank,  who  for  twenty  years  a  huntsman  great, 
Endures  to  live  to-day  a  strumpet's  mate. 
What  life  is  this?    By  night,  by  day,  a  thrall; 
What  solitude,  death's  image  rules  the  hall; 
And  now  and  then,  when  misty  night  descends, 
An  unknown  woman  by  a  window  bends, 
And  raven  tresses  to  the  north  wind  lends. 
Frank  is  no  more.    From  mount  he  disappears, 
And  could  he  wake,   perchance,   in  dream,  he 

hears 


232  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

The  voice  of  time  gone  by!     Tears,  brothers — 

weep! 

He  never  comes  gay  hallali  to  keep 
With  hounds  about  him  on  the  blood-stained 

grass, 

Bare  armed,  unseam  the  bucks  to  death  that  pass, 
And  at  the  meet  to  rest  and  drink  the  snow, 
Those  rills  that,  pure  of  foot,  from  ice-fields  flow. 

(Exeunt.) 


SCENE  III 

(Night.     Terrace  near  a  road.     Monna  B el- 
color  e  and  Frank  in  a  kiosk.) 

Belcolore.     Sleep,    pallid    one;    your    faintness 

put  to  flight 

Until  the  morrow,  heart  on  mistress'  breast. 
Your  strength  is  going,  and  day  comes  apace. 
Your  beauteous  eyes  of  blue  are  sinking.    Sleep. 
Frank.     The  day  comes  not.    Awake,  the  fever 

burns! 

O  Belcolore,  this  fire  consumes  my  veins! 
My  heart  with  love  is  languishing;  time  flies; 
And  what  to  me  this  sky,  its  night  or  day? 
Belcolore.    Ah,  Carlo  mine,  your  head  doth  reel 

and  sink, 

And  fall  upon  your  hands  as  o'er  your  cup 
You  slumber,  seem  to  die  and  wander  far. 
Ah,  weak  as  woman,  you  shall  yield  and  sleep. 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  233 

Frank  (aside).  Yes,  day  will  dawn.  O  beauti- 
ful, my  sweet! 

I  sink  to  death ;  strength  gone,  my  youth  expires. 

A  shadow  of  myself,  a  remnant  vain, 

A  looming  specter  of  myself  at  night. 

O  God !    So  young  yestreen,  to-day  I  fail. 

You  slew  me,  and  your  body  is  my  tomb. 

My  kisses  wore  the  threshold  of  that  tomb; 

My  winding-sheet  your  tresses  black  and  long. 

Those  torches  take  away;  the  window  ope, 

Let  sunlight  in ;  this  sun  may  be  my  last. 

The  sun  shall  find  me,  fain  to  bid  farewell 

To  that  pure  sky  that  wins  me  to  my  God ! 

Belcolore.  Why  keep  me,  then,  if  I  have 
brought  you  death? 

Must  you  for  two  nights,  die,  in  pleasure  spent? 

Frank.     Of  dying  every  happy  lover  speaks. 

You  slew  me!  From  that  morn  my  eye  met 
yours, 

My  life  began.    The  rest  was  not  a  life, 

And  never  has  my  heart  throbbed  save  on  yours. 

You  gave  me  wealth,  you  opened  wide  the  world ! 

Behold,  my  love!  superbly  fair  this  night! 

Before  such  a  witness,  what  is  all  we  say, 

If  soul  speak  clear  and  soul  fit  answer  give? 

Mute  is  the  angel  of  the  night  of  love. 

Belcolore.  Last  night  at  lansquenet  you  won 
what  gold? 

Frank.  I  care  not,  know  not.  Memory  disap- 
pears. 


234  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Now,  now!    Unto  my  arms!    Let  me  adore! 
Arouse  me,  speak !    Recount  your  history. 
Night  splendid,  night  superb!     My  tears  burst 

forth. 
Belcolore.     You  wish  to  wake,  then  rather  tell 

your  life. 

Frank.     We  are  so  happy  that  I  would  forget. 
What  could  I  say,  in  faith?    Such  stories  are 
The  tale  of  deeds  and  dangers  whose  empire 
Is  sovereign  master  of  oblivion's  hour. 
Naught  have  I  done,  naught  seen;  what  could  I 

tell? 

The  story  of  my  life,  the  story  of  my  heart, 
A  country  strange  where   journeying   I   have 

gone. 

Hold  fast  my  brow,  for  strength  is  ebbing  fast. 
Speak,  speak,  for  I  would  listen  to  the  end. 
Now,  then,  one  pretty  kiss;  I  give,  you  take. 
One  kiss  for  life  of  yours,  and  tell  me  all. 
Belcolore  (sighing).     Not  always  have  I  lived 

as  men  may  think. 

My  family  in  Florence  once  was  great, 
But  ruin  came,  and  bitter  need  compelled 
This  life  I  lead  of  honor  lost,  of  shame. 

My  heart  was  never  formed 

Frank    (turning  his  back).     Always  the  same 

old  tale! 

This  is,  I  guess,  the  twentieth  puss  of  whom 
I  ask  it,  and  each  time  the  same  old  song! 
Whom  have  they  seen  to  fool  and  make  believe? 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  235 

My  God!  what  miry  bog  has  caught  me  now? 
I  thought  this  girl  to  be  too  fine  for  this. 

Belcolore.     My  father  died 

Frank.  Enough,  I  pray! 

The  rest  I  mean  to  get  from  Julie  there, 

Near  any  cross-roads  where  she  waits  for  men. 

(Both  remain  silent  for  a  time.) 
Tell  me,  that  famous  day  when  you  rode  up, 
What  hazard,  or  what  sympathy,  or  what 
Queer  fancy,  prompted  you  to  lead  me  off? 
I  wore  poor,  dusty  garments  stained  with  blood. 
Belcolore.     I  told  you  once  that  you  fought  well 

the  fight. 

Frank.     Sincerely,  now,  you  liked  a  robust  man. 
Your  eyes  for  once,  my  child,  did  not  read  right. 
A  woman  loves  a  burden-porter,  yes; 
The  taste,  like  other  tastes,  in  nature  lies. 
Were  I  a  woman,  fond  of  strong  men  too, 
I  should  not  run  at  random  in  my  quest; 
I  should  go  forth  among  pothouses,  where 
From  half  a  dozen  wrestlers  I  might  choose. 
Another  word:  the  man  I  took  you  from 
Was  keeping  you,  no  doubt,  to  please  his  lust? 
Belcolore.     Of  course. 
Frank.     Were  you  not  crushed  by  his  untimely 

death? 

The  rattle  in  his  throat — a  dreadful  sound; 
The  left  eye  out!     The  pommel  of  the  sword 
Had   gashed   his   brow,   the  throat   itself   was 

pierced. 


236  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Beneath  the  horses'  hoofs  he  lay  a  corse ! 
Like  the  torn  ivy,  which  itself  will  drag 
To  cling  once  more  upon  a  shaggy  oak, 
That  wretch  would  drag  and  writhe  and  cling 
To  what  was  life.    And  you,  a  murd'ress  dark, 
Felt  neither  soul  nor  heart  within  you  sink? 
You  spoke  no  word  nor  moved  one  little  step? 
Belcolore.     Do  you  pretend  I  have  a  heart  of 

stone? 
Frank.     Even  what  I  utter  can  not  stir  the 

heart ! 
Belcolore.     I  hate  coarse  words.     My  manner 

elsewhere  leads, 

And  when  one  word  I  need,  I  speak  not  two. 
You,  Frank,  have  ceased  to  love. 
Frank.  I?    I  adore, 

Fair  Belcolore!    I've  read,  it  was  some  book 
That,  for  two  happy  loves,  the  time  most  sweet 
Was  'mid  the  whisperings  of  a  sleepless  night, 
Amid  intoxication  after  love, 
With  senses  peaceful  and  desire  forgot; 
When  hand  in  hand,  and  soul  embracing  soul, 
Two  loves  are  one,  and  being  'neath  the  spell 
Of  balmy  happiness  that  breeds  one  dream; 
When  she,  as  friend,  put  off  the  mistress,  bids 
Her  well-beloved  explore  her  deeper  heart, 
As  a  cool  spring  wherein  the  wave  is  calm 
Betrays  profound  delights  in  purity. 
Then  know  we  all  the  price  of  her  we  love ; 
Then  we  exult  that  we  have  chosen  well; 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  237 

Then  gentle  dreams  may  come  and  close  our 
eyes. 

0  Belcolore,  my  friend,  is  this  not  truth? 
Belcolore.     What  nonsense! 

Frank.  We  are  happy,  are  we  not? 

1  think  'tis  time  to  regulate  our  life, 

Count  not  on  hazard,  games  of  cheating,  chance ; 
We  can  at  first  take  in  some  good  old  man, 
Who  furnishes  the  wine  and  furniture; 
The  night  for  him,  and  I  will  take  the  day. 
From  time  to  time  you  play  a  trick  or  so — 
I  mean  a  trick  that's  nice,  adroit,  that  pays. 
The  friends  he  has  shall  drink  his  reddest  wine. 
The  hunter  you,  and  I  will  be  the  hound. 
And,  first  of  all,  a  maid,  discretion's  self, 
Quite  apt  to  grease  the  hinges  of  a  door. 
We  pay  her  richly,  as  she's  all  for  sale. 
For  me,  I'll  turn  attendant  cavalier. 
The  household  of  us  twain  will  be  a  pearl. 
Belcolore.      You    either   must   leave    off   your 

pleasantry, 

Or  surely  I'll  have  done  with  you  forthwith. 
Make   peace,   will  you?     I'm  not  the   one   to 

sulk. 

Come,  kiss  me,  Frank. 
Frank.  Ugly  wanton,  she     . 

My  God!    But  two  days  more,  my  doom  were 

sealed. 

(He  leans  over  the  terrace.    A  soldier  rides 

by.) 


238  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Soldier.     A  soldier  riding  on  his  way 

At  lightning  flash  and  thunder  laughs. 

One  hand  the  sword  will  oft  display, 

One  hand  the  glass  from  which  he  quaffs. 

And  when  he  dies  he  comes  to  earth 

Like  any  lord  of  lofty  birth. 

His  heart  is  in  his  lassie's  hand ! 

His  arm  defends  the  fatherland ! 

His  head  the  Kaiser  shall  command! 

Frank.     Holla,  good  friend !    A  word  with  you. 

You  seem 

A  sturdy  blade,  a  jolly  temper  yours. 
Your  brave  companions  march  they  to  the  wars? 
Where  stands  our  Kaiser?     In  what  fortress 

now? 
Soldier.    At  Glurens.    Two  days  more,  and  war 

begins. 

I'm  marching  now  to  join  my  company. 
Frank.     Is  it  from  plain,  or  from  the  hills,  you 

come? 
You  know  my  father?     Have  you  heard  my 

name? 
Soldier.     I  know  you  well,  the  village  whence 

you  are, 
The  mill  hard  by.     And  what's  your  business 

here? 

You  march  with  us? 

Frank  (coming  down).  Yes,  truly,  here  am  I. 
My  traveler's  garb  I  have  not  donned,  but  you 
When  we  ride  in,  will  lend  me  some  old  sword. 


239 

(To  Belcolore.) 

Adieu,  my  child,  I  can  not  sup  with  you. 

Soldier.      They'll    give    you    armor.      On    my 
horse's  croup! 

Parbleu!     My  comrade,  now  our  troop's  com- 
plete. 

Oh,  yes !    But  tell  me,  as  we  ride  along, 

If  one  fine  evening  you 
(They  gallop  off.) 

Belcolore  (on  the  balcony).    I  love  him  still! 


ACT    THE    THIRD 

SCENE  I 
(Before  a  palace.    Glurens.) 

Soldiers  (in  chorus).     Like  hurrying  snowflakes 

driven  by  the  gale, 

That  swinging  bound  from  ice-fields  to  the  vale, 
The  Tyrolese  and  comrades  Palatines 
Come  dashing  forth  to  greet  the  battle  signs. 
But  now  the  Kaiser  doth  the  war-dogs  hold ; 
The  wantons  on  their  gates  their  banners  fold. 
But  harken!  hark!    The  bugle  bids  good-by; 
Our  ancient  realm  doth  call  her  barons  nigh. 
Mount,  mount,  ye  hunters  of  the  frightened 

stag! 
Mount,  sons  of  Rhine!  mount,  bearers  of  the 


240  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Your  children  come  to  nestle  near  your  heart. 
Off  with  that  armor!    Kiss!    Ye  ne'er  shall  part. 
Rest,  soldiers,  now.     There  stands  the  home  of 

Frank, 

That  warrior  captain,  him  of  matchless  rank; 
Our  Kaiser  old  has  clasped  him  in  his  arms. 
The  people  crowned  him  after  war's  alarms. 
Within  these  halls  he  sups  with  comrades  round ; 
No  worthier  knight,  no  glory  better  found. 
At  Innsbruck  he  alone  black  eagle  won, 
In  thickest  fight  and  'fore  the  mouth  of  gun. 
Full  twenty  times  his  men  amid  the  fray 
Had  thought  him  dead,  of  battle's  storm  the 

prey. 

The  brave  he  led,  advancing  like  the  scout, 
Plunged  in  the  fire,  and,  diver-like,  came  out. 
Three  bullets  struck  him,  falling  in  his  track; 
His  life  seemed  lost ;  Dame  Fortune  gave  it  back. 
Enough  he  spent  of  life  to  win  the  Cross, 
And  every  spur  with  gold-red  blood  emboss. 

What  does  she  here,  the  dark  Italian  girl, 

Running  apace,  while  locks  disheveled  whirl? 

Where  are  you  running  now?  You  can  not  pass. 
(Enter  Belcolore.) 

Belcolore.  Is  this  the  house  in  which  your 
captain  lives? 

Soldiers.     It  is ;  but  speak  to  the  lieutenant  there. 

Lieutenant.  We  can  not  let  you  pass,  my  prin- 
cess fair. 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  241 

Belcolore.     But,    really,    I    must    straightway 

enter  in. 

My  name  is  Belcolore — his  mistress  now. 
Lieutenant.     Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  I  recognize  you 

well. 

It  drives  me  to  despair.    My  orders  stand. 
If  Frank's  your  lover,  good.     I  don't  think  so, 
For  that  would  be  an  honor  not  for  you. 
Belcolore.     If  not  my  lover  now,  he  shall  be 

soon — 

This  evening.    Understand,  I  love  him  still. 
Once  left,  if  you  would  know,  again  I  come. 
Soldiers.     Pert  little  minx,  she  has  a  face  of 

bronze. 

Runs  after  folks,  stiletto  in  her  hand ! 
Belcolore.     It  is  a  torch  to  light  me  on  my 

way. 
Come,   then,    step   out,   and   point   me   to   the 

gate. 
Lieutenant.     My  beauty,  since  you  will,  behold 

the  gate. 

Approach,  but  with  a  man  for  escort  go. 
The  woman's  sure  a  demon  incarnate. 

(Belcolore  goes  in.     Frank,  crowned,  on 

horseback.    Enters. ) 
People's   chorus.     With  laurels   crowned,   you 

are,  in  sooth,  the  man 
To  ride  among  us  on  triumphant  steed. 
The  war  is  ended  now.    Our  emperor  can 
Think  him  your  debtor  in  his  need. 


242  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

Dismount!    Within  the  amphitheater  rest. 

O  victor  wrestler!  blood  flows  yet:  wash  clean 

that  breast. 

(He  dismounts.) 
Knights'  chorus.     By  fortune  blest,  still  young, 

you  win  renown, 

And  glory  slowly  ripening  for  the  tomb ; 
The  earth,  that  saw  you,  from  her  memory  flings 

down 

The  shades  of  heroes  once  in  bloom. 
Like  Beatrice  at  Purgatory's  gates, 
Your  wings  seek  newer  paths,  more  glorious 

fates. 
The  People.     Come  on!     The  splendid  day,  a 

festival, 

Must  finish  splendidly  in  feasts  of  joy. 
Your  guests,  their  heads  have  wreathed  in  palace 

hall; 

Your  father  waits  to  clasp  his  gallant  boy. 
Why  linger  more?     Go   in!  they've   laid   the 

board ; 
Go  in !  the  gates  stand  wide,  and  night  is  lord. 

(They  go  in.) 

SCENE  II 
(Frank  and  Guniher,  alone.) 

Gunther.     Under  that  portico  you're  loath  to 

move, 
O  master  mine,  amid  the  public  feast, 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  243 

You  whose  unerring  blade  has  felled  our  foes. 
Have  you  explored  your  friends'  most  inmost 

heart  ? 

Alas !  true  friends  are  mute  amid  the  crowd ; 
To  speak,  they  wait  till  all  the  flood  subsides. 
My  brother,  master,  they  proclaim  you  king. 
God  willing,  I,  though  old,  can  follow  you, 
The  rising  sun,  if  Heaven  shall  give  me  life. 
I  am  a  soldier  only,  grant  me  grace. 
My  irksome  friendship  wounds  you,  O  my  lord! 
Will    you   not    share   with    them   the    common 

mirth? 

What  hinders?    Is  it  weariness  of  joy? 
But  toil  and  danger  make  carousals  gay. 
Chorus  (within).     A  song  to  make  the  welkin 

ring, 

As  well  becomes  our  drinking  feats. 
Long  life  to  all  whom  wine  disarms ! 
The  days  of  battle  have  their  charms, 
But  peace  likewise  has  many  sweets. 
Gunther.     Dear  captain,  why  a  face   so  dark 

and  grim? 
The  wine  is  bubbling  round  the  board.     The 

songs 

Of  merrymakers  come,  and  shadows  flit 
Behind    broad    windows    where    the    lamplight 

beams. 
Chorus.     Why  linger,  Frank?    If,  Gunther,  this 

our  song 
Beneath  this  roof  affrights  not  your  gray  head, 


244  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

A  greeting  take,  a  drink  both  deep  and  long. 
Age,  we  forget  the  years  that  some  men  dread. 
Gunther.     A  deathlike  pallor   sits   upon   your 

brow, 

My  lord !    Your  spirit,  captive  to  dark  care, 
Hears  not  my  voice.     What  cloud  of  gloom  is 

this? 
What   dreams   of   awful  night   enshroud   your 

soul? 
Frank.     Wayworn,  and  tired  of  war  and  all  its 

•     noise, 

Apart  I  rode  this  morn  far  from  our  camp ; 
My  horse  went  slowly  down  a  dusty  path. 
I  halted,  thirsting  for  the  flowing  well, 
And  saw  a  girl  asleep  upon  the  grass, 
A  milkmaid  child  of  fifteen  summers,  bright. 
I  knew  her,  Gunther,  I,  her  mother's  friend, 
And  pleasant  days  I've  spent  with  country  folk. 
The  angel  sleeping  lay,  with  lips  half -closed — 
The  lips  of  children  open  like  the  rose, 
To  meet  the  breath  of  night.     Her  little  arms 
Within  a  basket  thrust;  her  open  hands 
Were  covered  o'er  with  herbs  and  eglantine, 
She    lay,    while    rocked    her    sense    in    childish 

dreams. 

I  knew  them  not.    Perhaps  o'ercome  by  sleep, 
She  lost  her  song,  begun,  not  ended  then. 
So  sings  the  bird  that  poises  on  the  flower. 
None  near,  I  took  her  hands  within  my  own, 
And,  bending  down,  I  would  not  vex  her  sleep. 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  245 

O  friend,  I  put  my  lips  against  her  lips, 
Then  I  departed,  weeping  like  a  child. 


ACT   THE    FOURTH 

SCENE  I 

(Before  the  palace.  Gate  draped  in  black.  A 
catafalque.  Frank  disguised  as  a  monk; 
two  servants. ) 

Frank.     Bring  here  the  tapers,  and  the  coffin 

bring. 

Forget  not.    It  is  I  whom  men  entomb ; 
I,  Frank,  dead  in  a  duel  yesterday. 
No  word,  nor  look,  nor  any  shoulder  shrug. 
No  start,  no  stir,  not  one,  to  mar  your  parts. 
My  will !    This  bear  in  mind. 

(Servants  depart.) 

Eternal  Judge, 

I  come  to  question.    Fever  thrills  shake  not 
This  bosom,  for  with  no  intent  I  come 
To  jest  with  death  profanely.    Act  of  mine 
No  counselor's  advice.    Reply  to  me. 
The  smith  the  silver  on  the  stone  doth  ring; 
To  him  that  sound  reveals  how  pure  the  mint. 
Like  him,  I  seek  an  echo  from  my  life, 
When  I  shall  smite  this  chilling  monument. 
Day  breaks,  and  soldiers  rise  to  leave  their  tents ; 


246  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

The  fireplace  crackles  now  with  branches  green; 
The  fisher  and  the  smuggler  ply  the  oar; 
Each  fears,  each  hopes,  with  palpitating  heart. 
What  noisy  agitation  stirs  the  town! 
Humanity,  the  bustling  monster,  wakes! 
'Neath  myriad  roofs  what  vital  bodies  stir! 
Ah,  sweating  animals !  oh,  toil  and  blood ! 
Why  sleepest  thou,  and  wherefore  travail,  toil, 
Old  monster  with  thy  million  feet?    Art  thou 
Eternal  as  thou  dreamest?    This  coffin  is 
Some  inches  longer  than  my  cradle  was. 
Such  difference!    Ah,  why  doth  mind 
Rush  first  when  body  acts?    Why  in  my  breast 
That  busy  worm  that  ever  digs  and  mines, 
Till  earth  sinks  under  foot,  before  the  goal? 
Chorus  (of  people  and  soldiers).     That  Frank 

is  dead,  they  say!    When,  then?    The  name 
Of  him  who  slew!    The  quarrel's  cause!    Now 

fame 
Is  rumoring  combats.     Where  and  when  the 

fight? 
Frank  (masked).     Frank's  ear  to  sound  is  shut, 

Frank's  eye  to  light. 

Chorus.     If  better  land  there  be  above  our  land ; 
If   far   from   wind   and   storms    thy   soul   can 

stand, 

Or,  fluttering,  hover  o'er  the  mountain  crest; 
If  curtains,  purple,  hide  the  burning  breast 
Of  cloudland  where  repose  from  war's  alarms 
Warriors  enshrined  in  panoply  of  gold, 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  247 

Lean  toward  us,  noble  hearts,  above  the  sky, 
Behold   thy   comrades,   how  their   swords   they 

break 

On  this  cold  earth  wherein  his  body  lies! 
Guniher   (running  up).     So  brave,  so  young, 

transported  to  the  skies! 
My  Frank!    Can  this  be  true,  thy  death? 
That  my  desire  is  granted  but  to  live 
To  see  thee  win  celestial  meed  at  last! 
My  hair  is  white,  and  I  am  all  alone! 
And  I  was  young,  because  thy  youth  sustained. 
I  loved  but  thee.    Ah,  age !    Ah,  misery ! 
My  Frank,  and  shall  I  never  see  thee  more? 
Frank.     I    had    forgotten    Gunther,    dear    old 

friend ! 
Chorus.     Muffle  the  drums,  and  let  the  priest 

appear. 
Kneel,  comrades,  kneel!  heads  bare,  and  silence 

here. 

The  prayer  for  dead  men  let  the  priest  intone. 
We  bear  our  captain  to  the  tomb's  dark  stone. 
He  died  a  Christian,  in  a  Christian  land. 
This  body  is  his  host's ;  his  soul  is  God's. 
Three  Monks    (coming  forward).     The  Lord 

upon  the  eternal  shade 
Resteth  now  his  burning  eyes, 
And  sentinel  in  light  arrayed 
The  righteous  and  the  damned  espies. 
He  knows  who  falleth  in  the  path, 
And  when  his  prey  he  blasted  hath, 


248  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Speaks  to  the  woes  his  wrath  doth  make. 

Count  well  the  dead  men  that  ye  take! 

Chorus.  O  Lord,  my  sins  too  great  for  mercy 
are! 

Monks.     To  deepening  battles  he  doth  call; 

Count  chiefs  without  the  funeral  rite 

Whose  coffins  are  the  entrails  all 

Of  lion  and  of  panther  light; 

The  just,  may  triumph  or  may  fly; 

Count,  when  the  glaive  is  wiped  dry, 

The  dead  men  fallen  like  the  rain 

On  mountain  or  on  furrowed  plain. 

Chorus.  O  Lord,  from  temptation  Thou  de- 
liver us! 

Monks.     For  on  the  day  of  pity  whole 

My  word,  that  teems  with  terror  dread, 

Shall  slay  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole. 

Again  shall  rise  the  gathered  dead, 

And  from  the  abyss's  empty  home, 

The  victims  frail  shall  falling  come, 

And  dry,  grant  mercy  wash  sin  now ! 

Shall  show  the  strain  upon  his  brow. 

Chorus.  My  teeth  shall  gnash,  and  every  bone 
grow  dry. 

Monks.     Come  from  beneath,  or  from  on  high, 

As  rings  the  ancient  prophet's  cry, 

Justice  to  each  man  shall  be  done, 

So  as  his  deed  has  justice  won. 

Then  glory  to  our  father  God! 

Though  impious  men  have  prospering  trod, 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  249 

Souls  of  the  just  in  hope  shall  be. 
All  glory,  hallowed  Trinity! 
Frank    (aside).     Atrocious   work    of   mounte- 
bank, in  truth ! 

0  Thou,  who  hears,  Intelligence  supreme, 
The  God  of  vengeance  like  an  idol  made ! 

A  rancorous  torturer,  that  roasts  and  burns ; 
Fire  and  its  terrors,  scheme  of  vengeful  Rome. 
They  love  to  tell  you  of  the  God-made  man. 

1  rather  recognize  the  man-made  God. 
Chorus.     Our  duty  is  not  yet  fulfilled; 
We  have  besought  forgiveness  for  his  soul ; 
If  one  can  tell  the  story  of  his  life, 
Stand  forth  and  speak. 

Frank  (aside).     In  truth  a  sacrilegious  task  for 

us! 
Officer  (stepping  forth).     Soldiers  and  knights, 

stout  comrades  in  the  wars, 
If  ever  man  deserved  tears  in  this  world, 
'Tis  he  who  is  no  more.    He  was  my  friend. 
Proud  of  my  right  of  pride,  I  speak  of  him. 
Born  in  a  hovel  of  a  hamlet  mean, 
Frank  was  a  brother  to  the  mountaineers, 
A  cherished  son,  of  all  the  welcome  guest. 
Frank.     In  this  you  err.     You  did  not  know 

him  well. 

The  neighborhood  detested  hunter  Frank. 
What  man  is  here  that  from  the  village  comes? 
Ask    him    the    truth.      That    village    was    my 

home. 


250  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

People.     Monk,  interrupt  not.     'Tis  a  friend 

that  speaks. 
Soldiers.     Our  man,  in  faith,  possessed  a  soul  of 

pride ; 

Loving  his  neighbor  well,  he  showed  it  not. 
One  day  he  flung  a  brand  upon  his  house. 
The  reason  is  to  me  a  secret  yet. 
Officer.     Let  not  his  faults  disturb  his  ashes  now. 
Doth  it  befit  such  witnesses  to  hear? 
Soldiers,  Frank  felt  his  mission  led  elsewhere. 
None  prouder,  none  more  fierce  in  battle's  fray. 
Such  fierce  persuasion,  for  who,  more  than  he, 
Proved  eloquent  at  times  when  speaks  the  arm? 
You  know  it,  soldiers,  I  have  fought  for  him, 
And  in  my  turn  can  say  I,  too,  was  one. 
Ardor  unequaled,  courage  naught  could  daunt, 
Redoubtable  he  was,  but  better  man. 
A  hero's  soul!    I  know,  for  I  have  seen. 
Frank.     Mistaken,  sir;  you  know  him,  but  not 

well. 

Frank  was  no  more  than  an  adventurer;       '  4 
A  madman's  risks  he  took,  his  soldiers'  life, 
To  court  an  honor  which  was  not  deserved. 
Without  a  title  born,  from  hovel  sprung, 
He  wrought  in  combat  as  the  gamester  plays; 
On  death  or  fortune  he  had  staked  his  all, 
Such  men  defy  the  fates,  a  common  sort ; 
They  swarm  in  armies,  convents,  and  in  marts. 
Think  you  this  Frank  was  worth  the  fame  he 

had? 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  251 

Respected  laws,  gave  to  the  Kaiser  love? 

Before  he  drew  his  sword,  he  lived  awhile 

With  Belcolore  to  ply  the  pander's  trade. 

Can  any  one  maintain  the  other  side? 

Soldiers.  Faith!  Since  the  hour  he  left  his 
father's  home, 

The  aforesaid  Frank  was  journeyman  at  trades. 

And  Monna  Belcolore,  we  know  her  well; 

She  lived  with  him.    We  saw  her  yesterday. 

People.     The  monk  shall  speak. 

Frank.  Worse  deeds  our  Frank  has  done. 

Reduced  his  sire  to  utter  beggary. 

He  needed  money  for  his  courtesan; 

The  little  sum  he  had  he  flung  to  her. 

What  do  you  give  to  him  who  has  profaned 

The  ashes  of  an  honorable  sire? 

If  guilty,  then  am  I  condemned  to  die! 

People.  Tell  us  the  truth,  you  monk,  and  fear- 
less speak. 

Frank.    But  if  the  Tyrolese  within  this  ring 

Decide  that  I  do  right,  then  they  are  proud 

To  be  as  I,  who  call  to  witness  God. 

Tyrolese.  That  Frank  is  but  a  worthless  wretch, 
we  swear! 

Frank.  To-day  he  spurned  a  seat  beside  your 
board. 

Do  you  remember  it? 

Soldiers.  We  curse  him,  tool 

Frank.     The  day  he  burned  his  father's  little 


252  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Soldiers.     The  monk  knows  all. 

Frank.  And  if,  as  people  say, 

He  cut  down  Stranio  in  the  road 

People.     Stranio,  Count  Palatine,  whom  Bran- 
del  found 

In  the  thick  wood,  and  sleeping  on  a  stone? 

Frank.     He  is  his  slayer! 

Soldiers.     Vilest  assassin!     Murderer  for  gold! 

Frank.     His   iron   pride,   have   you   forgotten 
that? 

All.    His  ashes  to  the  winds! 

Frank.  Incendiary ! 

Hamstring  the  parricide !  and  here 

His  coffin  rend !    (He  opens  it.) 

People  and  Soldiers.    The  bier's  an  empty  box. 

Frank    (unmasking).     If  it  is  empty,  then  is 
Frank  alive. 

Soldiers.     Ha,  Captain!    You  are  here? 

Frank  (to  Lieutenant).     Give  up  your  sword, 

Lieutenant;  you  have  let  the  riot  run. 

Had  I  been  dead,  where  now  should  I  abide? 

And  know  you  not  your  very  head's  at  stake? 

You  I  arrest,  and  in  the  Kaiser's  name. 

March  off  your  soldiers!    To  the  camp  away! 
(All  go  out  silently.) 

Frank.     I  am  undone.     A  burning  thirst  un- 
quenched 

Shall,  while  thy  life  endures,  consume  my  frame. 

My  God!    Such  struggles,  battles  terrible, 

Devotion  infinite,  a  body  scarred — 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  253 

But  nay ;  be  calm,  the  time  is  not  yet  come. 
Who  walks  from  yonder?    Belcolore,  is't  not? 
(Masks  cover  the  bier.    Belcolore,  in  black, 

kneels  by  the  catafalque.) 
I  see  her  drawing  nigh,  her  very  self — 
The  shape  of  beauty,  shoulders  firm  of  mold, 
That  throat  of  pride  and  ever  unconcealed, 
The  locks  combed  round  the  bold  and  stupid 

brow, 

With  those  two  eyes  that  gloom  as  black  as  hell, 
Behold  the  siren,  harlot  lent  for  hire. 
A  very  sewer  of  exhausted  life 
To  drain  us  men  and  suck  away  our  blood ; 
A  millstone  hewn  to  crush  us  into  brutes, 
What  strange,  foul  atmosphere  we  breathe  be- 
side 

This  monster  that  exhausts  and  charms  us  still! 
See  by  her  side  destroying  angels  twain: 
Death  and  voluptuousness,  both  doubly  fierce. 
I  well  remember  that  infernal  joy 
Of  being  ravaged  while  I  ravished  her, 
And  there  she  lay  beside  me,  breathless,  hot, 
A  creature  wan  and  cloyed,  with  grinding  teeth. 
No  heavenly  moments — rather  fits  from  hell, 
Is  this  foul  magnetism  that  from  them  springs. 
My  kisses  woke  in  me  desire  to  die. 
Ah!  woe  to  him  who  lets  the  lewd  desire 
Implant  impurity  within  his  breast! 
The  heart  of  virgin  knight's  a  vase  profound ; 
Let  one  first  drop  impure  be  poured  in, 


254  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

A  sea  might  never  wash  away  the  stain. 

The  stain  is  in  the  depths  of  an  abyss ! 

Whom  do  you  weep,   madame — is't   for  your 

spouse? 
Belcolore.     You  speak  the  word.    I'm  widowed 

of  one  love. 
Frank.     Of  yesterday.     I   see  the  weeds  you 

wear  are  new. 
The  black  becomes  you. 

Belcolore.  Yesterday,  for  aye? 

Frank.    Forever,  did  you  say?    Ah,  Belcolore, 
Forever  is  an  age. 

Belcolore.  Whence  know  you  me? 

Frank.    From  Naples.    I  one  winter  sought  you 

there. 

So  beautiful  is  Naples  and  its  sky! 
You  should  have  come  to  charm  away  the  hours. 

Belcolore.    I  do  not  recognize 

Frank.  You  must  forget. 

Besides,   I   wear  a  mask.     What  would   you, 

dear? 

Your  heart  is  peopled  yet,  and  I  am  lost. 
Belcolore.     You  monk,  you  go  your  way,  and  I 

go  mine. 
Frank.    With  all  those  tears  you  have  a  prudish 

air. 

My  pretty  friend,  to  speak  without  reserve, 
Your  future's  lonesome  with  your  lover  gone. 
Your  captain  had  no  money  to  bequeath; 
He  was  a  soldier,  splendid  in  a  fight, 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  255 

But  sorry  scholar  for  the  task  of  love — 
All  sentiment  at  night,  all  jeers  by  day. 
Belcolore.  Hush,  saucy  monk!  Set  store  upon 

your  soul. 

Not  always  timely  words  are  those  you  speak. 
Frank.    The  dead  are  dead,  and,  madame,  if  you 

choose, 

This  purse  is  yours,  and  this,  and  this  one  too; 
And  look,  a  piece  of  paper  wraps  it  round. 

(Covers  the  bier  with  gold  and  bills.)' 
Belcolore.    If  I  said  yes,  you  might  mistake  and 

lose. 
Frank    (aside).     Ah,   Jupiter,   he's   tempting 

Danae ! 

(Aloud)  I  warn  you  of  my  misanthropic  turn; 
I  mean  to  lock  you  in  some  palace  nook. 
In  bilious  moods,  I  beat  the  servants  round. 
My  bad  digestion  none  dare  disobey. 
I  have  a  jaundice,  but  they  must  be  gay, 
And  when  I'm  wakeful,  everybody's  up. 
I  am  capricious.    Do  I  suit  your  taste? 
Belcolore.    No,  by  the  holy  cross,  you  don't! 
Frank.     Fond  of  rubles,  no? 
I  have  more  left,  though  of  the  double  sort. 

(Drops  another  purse  on  the  bier.) 
Belcolore.    You  give  me  that? 
Frank  (aside).          Behold  the  loadstone,  gold! 
The  flesh  is  weak.    Temptation  is  too  strong. 
(Aloud)    An   ulcer  which   I   have   beside   my 

mouth 


256 

Disfigures  me.    I'm  dreadful  thin;  I  squint. 

JBut  little  blemishes  will  vex  you  not. 

Belcolore.    You  make  me  shiver! 

Frank.  There  lies — may  God  forgive! — 

A  golden  bracelet  I  bestow  on  you; 

It  will  go  well  upon  that  dainty  arm. 

(Throws  bracelet  on  the  bier.) 
This  ulcer  is  a  horror — gnaws  my  cheek ; 
Has  mined  my  teeth.     My  face  was  plain,  I 

know, 

But  now  I  am  a  really  hideous  man. 
My  eyebrows  gone,  my  beard  and  hair  are  lost. 
Belcolore.     Horrors! 

Frank.  Here  I  keep  beneath  my  robe 

A  ruby  necklace,  rather  rare,  I  think. 

(Throws  it  on  the  bier.) 
Belcolore.    Made  in  Paris? 
Frank  (aside).          See  you  the  minnows  come, 
Rise  to  the  top,  and  swiftly  take  the  bait? 
(Aloud)  If  that  were  all.    But  here's  that  awful 

sore, 

That  makes  me  like  a  dead  man,  hurdle-drawn; 
It  pumps  away  my  blood.    My  bones  decay, 
Down  from  my  skull  and  neck  to  my  foot-soles. 
Belcolore.    Enough,  in  Heaven's  name !  oh,  spare 

me — spare ! 
Frank.     Before  you  go,  give  back  the  gift,  I 

pray. 

Belcolore.    You  lie  so  wantonly. 
Frank.  One  kiss,  will  you? 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

Belcolore.    Ha,  ha!    I  will! 

Frank  (aside) .  So  pale  for  Danae. 

(Seizes  her  hand.) 
(Aloud.)  My  child,  look  out  and  see  the  silent 

street. 

They  dug  a  vault  below  the  catafalque. 
The  door  we'll  find  ajar.    Why  not  descend? 
(Aside).     Why  not  my  tomb? 
(Aloud.)     In   fact,   we   are   alone;   this   coffin 

strong- 
Shall  be  a  seat  for  us.    The  breeze  is  cool. 
What  say  you,  dearest? 

(Lifts  the  pall.) 

Belcolore.  Monk,  there's  nothing  here! 

Frank     (unmasking).     The    bier    is     empty? 

Frank,  then,  is  alive. 

Now,  harlot,  get  you  gone!    Your  hour  is  come! 
Begone,  and  speak  no  word,  and  come  no  more. 

(Dagger  in  hand,  drives  her  away.) 
Frank  (alone) .     Stiletto  mine,  thy  blade  is  glist- 
ening bare, 

And  beautiful  as  is  a  virgin.    Heart 
And  arm,  why  tremble  ye?    And  why  should  one 
Approach  the  other,  seeking  to  be  one? 
It  was  my  thought,  and  was  it  also  thine, 
O  providence  of  God,  that  all  should  end? 
Thou,  dreary  tomb,  dost  open  wide  thy  jaws. 
Thou,  raving  specter,  laugh!    I  fear  thee  not. 
Love  I  deny,  and  fortune,  glory  too, 
In  nothingness  believe,  as  in  myself. 


258  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

The  sun  doth  know  that  'neath  his  light 

In  matter  only  lieth  immortality. 

The  dust  is  God's.    All  else  belongs  to  chance. 

Are  Caesar's  ashes  not  the  north  wind's  sport? 

A  blade  of  grass,  a  grain  of  corn  our  life? 

That  I,  the  child  of  chance,  should  have  thus 

lived  ? 

A  little  world,  and  all  a  kneaded  shape, 
A  lamp  in  which  the  flame  burnt  out  its  wick; 
And  shall  naught  linger  after  on  the  sands 
Whereon  my  shadowed  body  walketh  now — 
Naught,  naught,  not  even  a  child,  a  passing 

thing, 

Naught  having  voice  to  cry  eternally? 
To  all  who  come  to  suck  life's  common  breast, 
That  I  your  elder  brother  used  to  cling 
And  suck  at  nature-mother's  long-lived  breast, 
Her  marble  breast,  so  dry  for  you  and  me. 
And  yet,  God  bless  me,  had  I  bit  the  teat? 
If  I  had  bitten  the  nurse's  bosom  then, 
If  I  had  bruised  it  in  so  fierce  a  way 
That  she  should  ever  bear  that  scar, 
And  show  the  nursling's  teeth  upon  her  heart, 
What  matter  if  the  deed  be  treasured  up? 
Human  ingratitude  is  the  tomb  of  good. 
Evil  more  strong:  Erostratus  is  right.        * 
Empedocles  obscured  heroic  fame, 
The  day  he  plunged  himself  in  Etna's  flames : 
With  sole  of  sandal,  he  dealt  savage  blow 
To  glory,  that  she  staggered  and  fell  in, 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  259 

And  what  remained?      His  strength  was  doubly 

proved, 

So  century  after  century  succeeds; 
In  the  deep  bark  of  ages  is  his  name. 
The  tree  may  wither,  but  the  name  remains. 
The  sacred  parchments  shall  indeed  decay; 
The  marbles,  like  to  drunken  men,  shall  fall, 
A  people's  tongue  shall  drop  from  living  speech, 
But  this  man's  name,  forever  mummified, 
Shall,  wrapped  in  spices,  through  the  ages  keep ; 
Above  his  grave  the  grass  shall  never  grow. 
I  will  not  die.    Behold  me,  Nature,  now, 
Two  nervous  arms  I  brandish  in  the  air. 
My  soul  is  doubly  wrapped  in  armor  strong 
To  shield  me  from  your  flashing  sword  of  steel. 
I  hunger — will  not  leave  the  tavern  now; 
Begin  thy  task  of  satisfying  me. 
If  not,  my  appetite  I  shall  appease. 
Beware,  I  go!    What  matters  which  the  road? 
I  walk,  I'll  go  where'er  the  human  soul 
For  spectacle  but  suffers  or  enjoys. 
Hate  is  the  passion  which  can  outlive  hope ! 
Of  yore  you  haunted  me,  you  black-robed  fiend ; 
We  were  acquainted  in  the  house  of  thatch; 
But  I  did  not  believe  thy  f  antom  pale, 
Of  all  that  flitted  in  surrounding  air, 
Would  be  the  last  to  leave  me.    Be  it  so ! 
Well,  kiss  me,  then,  my  sad  and  faithful  friend; 
You  see,  I've  held  aside  the  veil  of  life. 
We  go  together;  no,  you  follow  me, 


260  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Like  a  sweet  sister,  in  the  farthest  climes; 
You'll  be  my  refuge  and  experience. 
If  Doubt,  that  tardy  and  that  tasteless  fruit, 
Last  to  be  plucked  from  tree  of  knowledge  fair, 
What  shall  I  do,  but  bear  it  in  my  heart? 
Doubt!    Everywhere  it  is;  the  current  bears  it 

on; 

'Tis  that  pale  shroud  which  incredulity, 
In  pity,  throws  on  margin  of  the  grave, 
To  cover  branded  corse  of  human  hope! 
O  future  centuries,  how  sad  your  fate! 
Glory,  a  specter,  has  returned  to  heaven; 
Love  is  no  more,  and  life  is  desolate, 
And  solitary  man  thinks  but  of  death. 
As  murderers  pillaging  a  village  house, 
Are  seen  by  gleam  of  burning  home,  or  torch, 
In  silence  terrible,  they  crouch,  or  kneel, 
Strangling  a  virgin,  with  their  gory  hands 
Rending  her  fair,  long  hair,  the  victim  frail 
Dies  like  a  wounded  rabbit  in  the  field: 
So  the  deft  doctors  strangle  nature  kind. 
Now  what  remains  for  you,  posterity, 
The  day  in  which  you  make  the  funeral  train 
Of  moribund  and  old  humanity? 
We  hear  your  curses,  sons  of  men  unborn. 
Our  wives  to  old  men  will  give  monstrous  birth, 
Who  fiercely  smite  the  earth  and  lie  on  it, 
Crying  to  God  that  it  was  fertile  once. 
"Why  didst  thou  make  her  barren?"  is  their 

quest. 


261 

But  you,  you  sniveling  sophists,  paramours 
Of  Doubt,  when  you  have  dried  the  desert  wells, 
When  you  have  proven  that  this  universe 
Is  but  a  corpse  made  for  anatomists; 
When  of  creation  you  will  thus  have  made 
An  ordered  cemetery  of  smooth  graves, 
Where  with  your  icy  hand  you  will  have  cut 
The  same  inscription  on  the  tombstones  sad, 
I  see  you  cringing  in  the  shaded  ways 
That  penetrate  the  silence.     Tender  plants 
Will  no  more  love,  nor  nourish,  nor  conceive; 
The  forest  leaves,  deciduous,  will  fall ; 
And  you,  grave-diggers  in  the  common  tomb, 
Will  sit  in  council,  proving  man  a  fool. 
And  when  you  know  him  as  the  worms  will  do, 
You'll  order  him,  that  shadow  of  a  day, 
To  sport  upon  his  grave — he  falls  therein, 
A  mass  inert,  and  may  God  be  avenged. 
You  wished  to  play  Prometheus;  the  god 
With  bleeding  hands,  and  scalpel  shining  clean, 
Remodel  and  revamp  the  world  of  God ! 
But,  worthier  than  you,  that  tempter  bold, 
When  having  made  a  man  without  a  soul, 
He  raised  his  hand  and   called  for  fire   from 

heaven, 

Your  man  was  made !    The  very  flame  was  yours, 
And  yet  you  have  blown  out  the  breath  of  God. 
Contempt  is  science,  and  consort  of  doubt ; 
Eternal  wisdom  is  eternal  sleep; 
When  all  is  conquered,  we  shall  have  reduced 


262  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

To  fixity  the  wild,  pulsating  soul. 
What  hideous  ocean  is  our  common  life, 
To  glide  in  sunshine  o'er  its  brimming  waves, 
Like  son  of  God  who  walked  the  trackless  sea? 
What  fearful  monsters,  reptiles  of  the  main, 
Plow  savagely  the  deep  abyss  beneath? 
Pallor  of  death  is  on  the  forehead  white 
Of  divers  laboring  for  nothingness; 
For  love  is  nothingness,  and  glory,  death. 
Ah,  miry  prodigal  who  feeds  the  swine, 
How  many  beds  will  rest  thee  ere  thy  home 
Will  once  more  gladden  thy  distracted  eyes? 
Worn  out  with  lamentations,  ever  true, 
The  cry  of  madmen  whom  false  hope  deceived, 
Like  to  that  Gyges,  who  in  darkest  night 
Fled  from  the  fantom  of  the  bather  pale, 
And  who  one  instant  drove  his  burning  look 
Into  the  soul  of  youth,  a  fearful  wound. 
Folly  wounds  deep,  and  bleeding  secretly, 
We  know  not  what  we  see  of  things  of  life. 
All  lead  their  victim  to  some  certain  goal, 
Lights  ever  fleeing  and  yet  still  pursued, 
And  as  one  runs,  strength  will  forsake  him  there. 
The  distance  does  not  vanish,  but  leads  on. 
He  finds  that  what  surrounds  him  only  mocks 
His  hope  of  treasure,  so  will  not  return. 
He  understands  he  is  a  creature  dazed, 
And  that  he'll  fall  unless  he  look  to  heaven. 
He  walks  the  road  his  genius  will  pursue ; 
He  walks,  and  as  the  ground  overhangs  th'  abyss, 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  263 

He  sees  there's  not  one  moment  in  his  life 

That  human  genius  doth  not  folly  meet. 

They  wrestle,  hand  to  hand,  on  slippery  rock; 

While  both  climbed  it  only  one  comes  down. 

O  world,  O  Saturn,  O  immortal  stars, 

O  universe,  thus  is  it  everywhere! 

O  night,  deep  night,  specter  unfolding  worlds, 

Creation,  when  thou  raisest  thy  dim  veil 

To  see  thyself  in  thy  immensity, 

Seest  thou  from  north  to  south  but  nakedness? 

Tell  me  if  that  be  so,  O  mother  mine. 

Why  fill  me  with  that  ever-burning  thirst, 

If  there's  no  spring  wherein  it  may  be  quenched? 

Thou  shouldst  have  given  it  being,  mother  mine ; 

The  shrub  has  dew,  the  eagle  has  its  prey. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee  to  be  forgot? 

Why  are  not  trees  athirst  with  passion  too? 

Why  forge  the  arrow,  Nature,  if  indeed 

You  know  yourself  that  ere  it  can  be  shot 

'Twill  be  directed  to  a  mark  unknown, 

And  that  the  dart  which  left  your  clanging 

string 

Will  strike  no  bird,  will  bring  no  quarry  down? 
It  simply  pleases,  to  make  sport  of  me ! 
The  morning  wind  is  sweet,  the  breath  of  spring! 
Such  is  the  cry  of  age,  while  I  am  young. 
Angel  of  hope,  if  you  are  but  to  die, 
When  on  my  heart  you  come  to  rest  yourself, 
Sound  your  farewell  and  give  me  last  embrace. 
While  I  am  young,  and  life  is  dear  to  me, 


264  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 

Make  intercession  and  inquire  if  Heaven 
Has  drop  of  water  for  a  faded  flower. 
Fair  angel,  as  we  drink  it,  we  shall  die. 

(He  falls  on  his  knees;  a  bouquet  of  wild 

roses  falls  from  his  breast.) 
Who  casts  beside  me  these  wild  roses  sweet? 
Hast  thou  so  long  lived  happy  on  my  breast  ? 
Poor  plant!  'twas  thus  it  was  that  Deidamia 
Did  on  the  white  road  cast  thee  at  my  feet! 


ACT    THE    FIFTH 

SCENE  I 

(A   Village  Square.     Deidamia,  the  Maidens, 
and  the  Women.) 

Deidamia.  Dress  me  with  garlands,  O  my  dar- 
lings fair! 

Sing  me  sweet  songs,  for  reveries  are  dumb. 

Lay  your  soft  veil  upon  my  golden  hair. 

At  sunset  my  beloved  will  surely  come. 

The  Maidens.  Adieu!  we  lose  thee,  daughter  of 
the  hills; 

Beloved  of  happiness,  its  sweetest  dower. 

Sprinkle  thy  roses  with  the  grief  that  fills 

Our  hearts  to  lose  thee,  Tyrolean  flower! 

The  Women.  Virgin,  we'll  escort  thee  to  thy 
warrior  chief; 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  265 

Will  change  thy  garments  ere  we  gladly  sing 
Of  Hymen's  secrets.    Ah,  the  time  is  brief, 
Till  bound,  all  trembling,  with  the  nuptial  ring. 
The  Maidens.     The  hills  no  longer  echo  thy 

sweet  song, 

Nor  wilt  thou  wash  the  fleece  in  fountains  clear. 
The  crying  folds  thy  memory  will  prolong, 
With  thee  as  guide,  the  lambs  had  naught  to 

fear. 

The  Women.     How  fair  thy  face!    What  fas- 
cinations there, 

Lit  with  the  beauty  of  thy  happiness! 
How  Frank  will  love  thee!    Like  Diana  fair, 
Thy  huntsman  folds  thee  in  a  fond  caress. 
Deidamia.     And  yet  I  suffer.    If  you  think  me 

fair, 

Tell  him,  my  sisters;  he  will  love  me  more. 
Would  God  that  I  were  beautiful!  my  prayer 
More  like  the  young  immortal  we  adore. 
Alas !  my  beauty's  but  a  pallid  face ; 
That  of  Diana  is  a  lovely  rose ; 
For  sorrow  robbed  me  of  my  youthful  grace. 
I  wept  when  Charles  left  me.     Ah,  who  knows 
My  anguish  as  I  sat  at  mother's  side, 
Forlorn,  dejected?     True,  I  nearly  died. 


266  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 


SCENE  II 
( The  Mountaineers. ) 

So  Frank's  alive — his  death  a  false  report 
Of  hunters  listening  to  a  camp-fire's  tale ; 
And  they  who  sold  the  bear  had  killed  him  not; 
And  how  he  frightened  them  when  he  awoke! 
Now  forced  to  silence  when  he  speaks  to-day, 
He  slays  all  legends  with  his  living  voice. 
What  time  the  Farnese  Hercules  was  thrown 
Into  the  Tiber,  a  new  Hercules 
Was  made;  the  people  called  it  handsomer. 
The  model  being  dead,  the  credulous 
Know  only  what  they  see.     But  Hercules 
Emerged  one  day,  colossal  from  the  wave, 
And  being  raised  beside  his  shadow  small, 
That  foolish  marble  from  its  pedestal 
Fell  prone  upon  the  earth,  a  vanquished  thing. 
Frank  lives  once  more,  bereft  of  somber  look, 
Pale  forehead,  hard  of  heart,  whose  idleness 
Let  poverty  hang  dangling  on  his  heels ; 
But  now  a  bright  companion,  warrior  brave, 
Who  slaps  the  honest  farmers  on  the  back. 
Thank  God,  his  wrongs  forgotten  and  forgiven, 
And  here  are  we,  prepared  to  drink  his  health. 
To-day  he  weds  fair  Deidamia, 
Skilled  as  housewife  though  but  sweet  sixteen. 
If  ever  loved,  by  such  as  her  indeed. 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  267 

A  soldier  told  the  story  of  the  bier. 
It  seems  at  first  Frank  had  entered  it. 
Two  of  his  servants,  both  sole  confidants, 
Had  closed  the  top,  and  on  approach  of  night 
The  priest  with  torches  came  across  the  street. 
After  the  bearers  laid  the  coffin  down, 
'  You'll  leave  me,"  said  he,  "  but  a  breathing- 
hole, 

Since  some  day  I  must  see  death  face  to  face; 
We'll  get  acquainted,  and  shall  be  old  friends." 
He  had  himself  borne  gravely  to  the  church, 
And  through  the  hole  he  gazed  upon  the  sky, 
And  at  the  holy  place,  whence  dogs  are  driven, 
Whistling,  encased,  the  service  of  the  dead. 
Resting  uncomfortably,  he  desired  a  mask 
In  order  to  be  present  at  his  funeral. 
Ay,  what  man  has  not  had  his  disguise? 
The  pilgrim's  cowl,  the  helmet  of  the  knight, 
Are  dungeons  where  we  see,  yet  are  not  seen. 
Not  even  virtue  is  ofttimes  disguise; 
That  real  buffoon's  mask,  hypocrisy, 
Parades  with  empty  pride  the  stage  of  life, 
Yet  trembling  lest  discovery  appears, 
Which  later  on  will  tear  the  mask  away. 
(Exeunt.) 


268  CUP    AND    THE    LIP 


SCENE  III 
(A  small  room.    Frank,  Deidamia.) 

Frank.     Ah,   have   you   waited   for   me,   sweet 

Mamette ! 

You  counted  the  long  days  in  heart  and  head, 
Yet  still  stood  faithful  at  your  open  door. 
Deidamia.     My  friend,  my  friend,  Mamette  has 

suffered  much! 
•Frank.     The  hours  slowly  fled,   and  day  and 

night 

Found  you  still  wandering  on  that  lonely  road; 
Your  "Charles  far  away,  you  vigil  kept. 
Like  Fortune,  all  these  months  you  waited  me! 
Deidamia.     How  pale  you're  getting,  and  your 

voice,  how  changed ! 

O  God!  what  have  you  done  so  far,  so  long? 
My  mother,  do  you  know,  was  in  despair. 
Had  you  one  thought  of  us,  when  time  allowed? 
Frank.     I've  known  in  life  a  miserable  wretch 
Called  Frank,  a  being  most  unsociable, 
Who  held  aversion  in  his  neighbors'  hearts; 
Famine  and  fear,  like  to  oppressive  wolves, 
Lived  in  his  hollow  eyes;  grim  poverty 
Had  gnawed  his  flesh  down  to  the  shining  bone; 
Disdain  disjected  him,  and,  suffering  shame, 
Which   follows   poverty,   was   bound   upon   his 

back; 


CUP    AND    THE    LIP  269 

Life  and  its  laws  filled  him  with  burning  hate. 

Thus,  ever  shambling,  with  that  halting  step 

That  shepherds  have  in  following  idle  flock, 

He  wandered  on  the  mountains  and  the  plain, 

And  poaching  everywhere,  yet  still  flung  forth, 

And  still  he  moaned  about  fatality; 

With  neck  bent  forward  as  beneath  an  ax; 

One  would  have  thought  him  but  a  prowling 
thief, 

Or,  even  worse,  a  shameful  beggar  he; 

Not  yet  a  criminal,  fearing  punishment, 

For  his  sole  virtue  was  a  fear  of  crime. 

This  first  and  last  of  wretches  I  have  known; 

Yes,  dear  Mamette,  that  creature  I  have  known. 

Deidamia.  Who  can  be  there,  behind  that  win- 
dow hid, 

With  two  great  eyes,  and  wondering  wild  look? 

Frank.     But  where?    I  see  no  one. 

Deidamia.         Yes,  yes!    Some  one  o'erhears  us, 

Who  moved  away  the  moment  you  turned  round. 

Frank.  It  is  some  beggar  that  has  passed  this 
way. 

Come,  my  Deidamia,  what  has  made  you  pale? 

Deidamia.  Well,  and  your  story,  where  is  it  to 
end? 

Frank.     Another  time :  it  was  an  orgy  foul ; 

I  saw  a  picture  in  a  mirror  clear, 

A  gambler  in  his  cups  lay  on  a  couch; 

A  woman,  or  at  least  a  woman's  form, 

Embraced  him,  as  I  hold  you,  darling,  now. 


270  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

Vainly  he  struggled  with  the  spectral  form; 
She  seemed  a  siren  choking  him  to  death! 
That  man  unhappy — do  you  hear  me  now? 
Come,  come  and  kiss  me! 
Deidamia.  Oh,  no,  I  will  implore  you  not. 

(He  kisses  her  by  force.) 

Frank,  my  dear  Charles,  wait  until  we've  wed. 
Oh,  wait  until  to-night!    My  mother  comes! 
I  will  not,  sir — be  good — you'll  make  me  die! 
Frank.     Light  of  the  sun,  how  rare  a  girl  is  she! 
Deidamia.     We   must,   my   friend,   arrange   a 

family ; 

We'll  have  our  neighbors  and  your  relatives, 
My  mother,  above  all,  and  children  dear. 
You'll  work  all  summer  on  our  pleasant  farm, 
And  I  shall  keep  the  dairy  and  the  rest. 
Long  as  we  live  we  ne'er  shall  separate, 
Living  together  till  old  age  arrive. 
You  laugh?    And  why? 

Frank.  I  laugh  at  thunder. 

Yes,  devil  take  me !    It  may  fall  on  me. 
Deidamia.     And  what  is  that,  sir?     And  why 

speak  you  so? 

Frank.     Go  on,  my  little  one,  'tis  not  at  you. 
Deidamia.     But  who  is  there?     I  tell  you  we 

are  watched! 

You  do  not  see  that  ever-moving  face 
There,  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall? 
Frank.    Where?     On   what  side   moveth   this 

specter  head? 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  271 

You're  wrought  to  terror  by  some  fancy,  dear. 

(He  takes  her  in  his  arms.) 
It  would  be  cruel  to  suppose  that  one, 
Mamette,  less  beautiful  and  pure  than  you, 
In  foreign  places,  by  some  other  man 
Might  be  so  loved.    Ah,  yes!  I've  felt  my  soul 
Once  more  a  virgin  with  sweet  thought  of  you, 
As  water  that  reflects  your  lovely  face 
Is  made  more  pure,  because  your  image  chaste 
Beneath  its  crystal  seems  to  be  contained. 
'Tis  really  you!    I  hold  you  fresh  and  sweet 
Like  to  a  bird,  and  still  forgetting  all. 
There  is  your  cot,  your  distaff,  and  your  frame, 
Patience  and  sadness  with  your  work  inwrought. 

0  you,  who  have  received  in  your  sweet  heart 
My  sorrows  and  my  tears ;  who  in  exchange 
Have  given  me  rest  and  happiness  serene, 
How  gracious  you  behave,  my  little  one, 
Forgetting  my  disdain,  when  that  my  heart 
Has  been  so  wanting  to  your  happiness! 
Deidamia.     Ah,  you  always  know,  dear  hypo- 
crite, 

Some  beautiful  and  oft-repeated  speech. 

1  like  them,  when  'tis  you  that  utters  them ; 
But  not  for  me  were  they  invented  first. 
Frank.     Tell  me,  will  you  come  to  Italy? 

To  Spain?    To  Paris?    Oh,  how  gay  we'd  be! 
The  cost  so  little  and  your  beauty  great! 
Deidamia.     Now  tell  me,  is  this  bonnet  in  the 
mode? 


272  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

Wait  till  you  see  me  with  my  new  white  gown, 

My  shoes  and  stockings,  and  my  Sunday  hat ; 

My  beautiful  green  apron.     Why  your  laugh? 

Frank.  One  hour  hence,  and  we  shall  wedded 
be. 

The  kiss  you  shun,  and  which  I  steal  from  you, 

You'll  give  it  to  me,  Mamette,  willingly; 

In  one  short  hour,  my  God!  you'll  come 
with  it. 

Mamette,  I  am  dying  for  the  love  of  you! 

Deidamia.  Ah!  I've  learned  for  my  part,  how 
to  wait. 

I'll  be  your  sister  for  a  little  while. 

One  hour  more,  and  I  shall  be  your  wife. 

Yes,  I'll  return  it — yes,  with  all  my  soul; 

Your  rapturous  kiss,  my  Frank,  shall  be  re- 
turned 

With  added  fervor,  and  I  care  not  then 

If  your  fierce  thunder  crush  me ! 

Frank.  Oh,  how  enduring  in  this  hour!  How 
fair! 

Oh,  with  what  cruel  pleasure  you  submerge 

And  drown  my  heart,  Deidamia ! 

Deidamia.  Look,  look,  the  head  is  ever  linger- 
ing there! 

Who  can  so  watch  us? 

Frank.  Darling  Mamette, 

Do  not  turn  from  me  that  charming  lip — 

No,  even  though  eternity  engulf 

My  soul! 


CUP   AND    THE    LIP  273 

Deidamia.     My  friend,  a  lover  should  respect 

his  wife. 
Frank.     No,  no!  e'en  though  your  kiss  should 

burn  my  soul! 

No,    though    your   jealous    God    should    pun- 
ish us! 
Deidamia.     Well,  yes,  your  mistress — yes,  your 

darling  one! 

Your  own  Mamette,  your  servant  and  your  wife. 
Though  death  may  come,  I  love  you;  I  relent. 
Now  fold  me  in  your  arms,  unroll  my  hair, 
And  crush  my  dress  of  linen  with  th'  embrace. 
I  know  I'm  beautiful,  for  many  loved, 
But  I  was  yours.    I've  kept  my  treasure,  Frank! 

(She  falls  in  his  arms.) 
Frank  (rising  quickly).     Some  one  is  there,  'tis 

true. 
Deidamia.     What  matters  it,  my  Charles,  if  you 

are  here? 

Frank.     Ah!  massacre  and  hell!    It's  Belcolore! 
Stay  here,  Mamette,  until  I  speak  with  her. 

(He  jumps  out  of  the  window.) 
tyeidamia.     O  God!  what  will  he  do?  what  can 

it  be? 
He's   now   returning.     Well,   what   have   you 

found? 
Frank   (at  the  window  outside).     No,  but,  by 

thunder,  it  will  have  to  come! 
I  think  it  was  a  ghost,  and  you  were  right. 
Await  me  till  I  walk  around  the  house. 


274  CUP   AND    THE    LIP 

Deidamia  (running  to  the  window).  My 
Charles,  do  not  go!  If  toward  the  plain 

It  speeds,  then  let  it  go ;  it  bears  ill  luck. 

(Belcolore  appears  at  another  window  and 
immediately  disappears. ) 

Help!  help!  I'm  struck  a  deadly  blow.  Some 
one 

Has  driven  a  knife  into  my  heart! 

(Deidamia  falls,  and  goes  out  crawling.) 

The  Mountaineers  (running  on  from  without). 

Frank,  what  has  happened?  Some  one  screamed 
aloud. 

But  who  is  lying  there,  soaked  in  her  blood? 

Just  God;  it  is  Mamette!    Her  soul  has  fled. 

A  dagger  has  been  driven  in  her  side. 

Murder!    Frank,  murder! 

Frank  (entering  the  cottage,  carrying  Deidamia 
dead  in  his  arms).  Oh,  thou,  my  well-be- 
loved ! 

With  my  first  kiss  thy  soul  has  closed  itself. 

For  fifteen  years  thou  hadst  awaited  it. 

Mamette,  too  rudely  art  thou  sent  away 

Without  returning  it  to  me ! 
JULY  AND  AUGUST,  1832. 


STANZAS 

RUINS 

AH,  how  I  love  to  see  a  vale 

Of  sand  or  shale, 
Where  rise,  like  mausoleum  hale, 
Black  walls  of  monastery  drear! 
Ah,  how  I  love  to  see  at  hand 

The  pile  command 
White  cross  and  holy  basin-stand, 
And  feudal  castle's  threshold  near! 

Among  the  ancient  Pyrenees, 

Swept  by  the  breeze, 
Old  churches,  gaunt  amid  the  trees, 
Memorials  sad  of  crumbling  stones 
Time  can  not  blast,  nor  tooth  of  rust, 

Nor  lightning's  gust. 
Of  what  great  mountain  changed  to  dust 
Are  you  the  bare  and  lifeless  bones? 

I  love  your  towers  with  heads  of  gray, 

Where  pilgrims  pray; 
There  sunbeams  and  the  breezes  play. 
Your  stairways  steep  I  climb  among, 

275 


276  STANZAS 

Which  wind  amid  the  entrails  dark 

Of  walls  so  stark, 
The  echoes  of  the  columns — hark! 
Repeat  thy  hymns,  departed  throng! 

And  when  the  storm  begins  to  roar 

The  country  o'er, 

And  sweeps  where  mountain  forests  soar, 
Whose  leaves  are  turned  to  red  and  gold, 
I  love  to  see  the  granite  spires 

Like  flame  of  fires, 
A-bending  where  the  stone  aspires, 
Grim  steeples  of  the  abbey  old. 

I  love  to  see  the  evening  sun 

Strike  windows  dun, 
And,  lo,  a  glory  has  begun ! 
Mine  eyes  with  bloom  are  comforted. 
The  golden  light  is  stretched  in  bands, 
Green  saints,  whose  presence  awe  commands, 

With  folded  hands, 
Pray  for  the  living  and  the  dead. 


THE    WILLOW 
A  FRAGMENT 


A  SILENCE  expectant  now  hushes  the  throng, 
And  sweet  Georgette  Smolen  proceeds  with  her 

song. 

Pale  as  a  lily,  and  sad  is  her  glance, 
Regretful,  perhaps,  of  her  late  home  in  France. 
She's  only  sixteen,  of  American  birth, 
But  in  that  country,  the  fairest  on  earth, 
Never  have  blue  eyes  more  sweet  gazed  upon 
Its  sky,  and  reflected  within  them  its  tone. 
Fragile  and  ailing,  still  proudly  she  bore 
Herself  like  a  queen,  and  she  carelessly  wore 
Upon  her  pure  brow,  like  a  crown,  her  soft  hair, 
Those  long  golden  tresses,  so  shining  and  rare. 
Hers  is  a  beauty  of  which  they  say  true, 
Her  admirers  are  many,  her  lovers  are  few; 
True-hearted  and  noble,  a  goddess  she  seemed, 
Where    pleasure    for    mother    sweet    modesty 

claimed. 
Though  soft  is  her  voice,  'tis  proclaimed  in  each 

line, 

Her  gesture,  deportment,  her  carriage  divine, 
A  haughty  demeanor  repelling  the  crowd; 
Is  it  sadness,  or  may  be  disdain?     She  is  proud 

277 


278  THE    WILLOW 

With  a  pride  that  is  gentle,  and  strives  not  to 

wound, 

For  she  in  her  short  life  has  already  found 
Much  hope  and  much  fear,  much  indifference 

cold — 

The  child  of  the  times — but  who  then  could  with- 
hold 

His  heartfelt  delight  in  that  charming  fair  face, 
The  mere  sight  of  which  would  banish  all  trace 
Of  sorrow,  and  evil's  corrosions  repair. 
How  effectively  potent  on  all  human  care 
Are  those  sweet  twin  symbols  of  comfort  and 

peace, 
The  true  heart  of  youth  and  the  youthful  of 

face. 

'Tis  strange  how  the  icy,  implacable  one 
Is  melted,  as  though  by  the  glance  of  the  sun. 
The  unveiled  mystery  of  that  brilliant  glance, 
Which,  piercing  as  keenly  and  sharp  as  a  lance, 
Goes  straight  to  the  heart,  and  the  cold  mortal 

deems 
That  day  the  most  rueful  he  first  felt  its  gleams. 

Miss  Smolen  sang  on ;  all  eyes  were  upon  her ; 
The  gilded  lorgnettes  were  uplifted  to  con  her; 
That  half -haughty  glance  of  superlative  pride, 
Which  we  all  know  so  well,  and  in  vain  seek  to 

hide, 

So  scornfully  calm  when  a  woman  is  fair, 
Ignoring  them  all  with  her  stateliest  air. 


THE    WILLOW  279 

She  warbled  that  melody,  plaintively  drear, 
Which     'wakening    memories — death    drawing 

near — 
Wrings   from  young  hearts  that  are  passing 

away. 

Songs  Desdemona  in  trembling  dismay 
Sobbing  at  midnight  in  woful  despair, 
As  sinks  on  her  pillow  a  forehead  of  care. 

First  her  clear  notes,  full  of  undefined  ill, 
Seemed  to  portray  but  a  sweet,  languid  thrill, 
When  lips  are  asmile  and  the  eyes  only  weep; 
As  when  a  traveler  over  the  deep, 
Adrift  in  his  light  skiff,  a  buoyant  waif, 
Heedless  to  know  the  coast  treach'rous  or  safe; 
Whether  it  ends  in  a  tempest  or  not. 
So  the  young  maiden,  entranced  in  her  thought, 
Enwrapped  in  an  ecstasy  of  the  sweet  voice, 
Fearless  and  effortless,  bankrupt  of  choice, 
Floating  bewitched  on  a  musical  stream, 
Her  eyes  on  the  skies,  her  soul  in  a  dream. 

How  great  is  her  charm,  still  compelling  sur- 
prise ! 

They  all  are  entranced  by  the  look  in  her  eyes. 
Thus  ever  it  is,  be  it  night  in  the  storm, 
Or  be  it  a  nightingale  weeping  forlorn, 
Or  be  it  the  golden  bow,  harp  of  the  air, 
Or  be  it  celestial  sigh,  or  human  prayer. 
Where  is  the  man  who  has  once  bowed  his  head, 
Listening  the  sound  of  a  voice  that's  now  dead, 


280  THE    WILLOW 

Finds  not  a  tear  in  his  soul  to  be  shed, 

A  tribute  of  love  for  the  friend  that  is  dead? 

Daylight  is  waning,  the  night-wind  blows  drear. 

Silence!    The  hush  is  pervaded  by  fear, 

Growing  and  spreading  till  focused  in  fright, 

Then  goes  the  murderer  forth  to  the  night, 

Forces  unseen  are  at  fight  in  the  air, 

lago  to  work!  Cassius  dies  on  the  square. 

Is  it  the  fisherman's  song  in  the  bay? 

Soft  on  the  wind,  gently  dying  away. 

Hark  you,  ye  doomed,  there  is  no  sorrow  worse 

Than  a  happy  remembrance  in  days  of  reverse. 

When  in  the  last  notes  the  tremulous  flame 
Flits  in  an  ecstasy  over  her  frame, 
Ready  to  melt  now,  frenzied,  distressed, 
Screaming  she  presses  the  harp  to  her  breast; 
The  maiden  then  feeling,  the  claims  of  her  part, 
Calling  for  melodies  unknown  to  art, 
Sobbing  harmonious  rhythms  of  sound, 
Dying  she  falls  with  her  harp  to  the  ground. 
Heavens!  to  die  thus  with  heart  full  of  life! 
Then  came  a  hush  of  harm,  terror,  and  strife. 
The  woman,  in  falling,  had  found  only  tears. 
Weep,  Heaven  bids  thee,  and  calm  all  thy  fears : 
Leave  a  sweet  tear  on  the  fringe  of  thine  eye, 
To  shine,  as  it  drops,  like  a  star  in  the  sky. 
Many  whose  ashes  are  watered  with  tears, 
Living,  have  longed  for  such  balm  to  their  years. 


THE    WILLOW  281 

Modestly  watching  the  audience  retreat, 
That  filed  out,  amazed  at  singing  so  sweet, 
Gazing  their  rapture  on  her  they  admired, 
Blushingly  then  Miss  Smolen  retired, 
But  on  the  balcony  leaned  for  a  space. 
He  who  has  felt  it  alone  can  express 
That  charm  irresistible,  soulful  and  good, 
That  deep-felt  emotion  not  understood, 
Which  a  heart  feels  when  surprised  by  itself, 
Which  a  heart  knows  when  untainted  with  pelf. 
Then  the  first  petals  of  their  own  delight 
Ope,  like  a  flower  in  coolness  of  night. 

Deep    from    thy    mystic    cell,    peace    we   may 

borrow, 

Harmony!  harmony!  daughter  of  sorrow; 
Nurtured  in  Italy,  born  from  above, 
Language  that  genius  invented  for  love. 
Gate  of  the  heart,  through  which  alone  thought 
Passes  unveiled,  unfearing,  untaught, 
Think  of  the  mystery,  when  a  mere  child, 
There  to  its  solitude  seems  reconciled. 
Sad  as  its  heart  may  be,  seems  to  rejoice, 
Born  in  the  air  it  breathes,  sweet  as  its  voice ; 
Its  plaintive  wailings,  not  understood, 
Like  those  of  the  winds  and  waters  and  wood. 
After  vibration  has  ceased,  and  the  soul, 
Under  the  Spirit's  hand,  feeling  the  whole 
Being  to  tremble,  as  when  the  harp-string, 
Refusing  all  silence,  will  mournfully  ring, 


282  THE    WILLOW 

And  when  this  fair  one,  absorbed  in  her  theme, 
Unconscious  of  love  save  as  known  in  a  dream, 
Raises  her  eyes  and  behold  in  the  gloom 
Some  one  was  near  her,  quite  near  her — but 

whom? 
Who  was  it?    How  many  bold  eyes  sought  her 

own, 

Quite  unregarded  their  owners  had  known; 
Many  a  proud  one  had  fain  bent  the  knee 
To  merit  her  smile;  but  this  man,  who  was  he? 

Young,  with  an  eye  that  was  harsh  and  severe, 
Who,  when  she  swayed  a  whole  audience  with 

fear, 

Sat  near  her  motionless,  seeming  in  doubt ; 
On  her  retiring,  he'd  followed  her  out. 
There  stood  he  now,  a  strange  smile  on  his  face, 
Blond,  with  a  curious,  womanish  grace; 
Such  as  observed  it  would  find  in  his  look 
Naught  but  a  mystery,  like  a  sealed  book. 

Englishman,  surely,  his  clothing  proclaimed, 
Hailing  from  Oxford,  whose  learning  is  famed; 
Owning  the  mansion  in  which  his  sire  died 
Poor,  but  entangled  in  family  pride, 
Living  his  life  of  ennui  day  by  day, 
Known  as  Tiburce,  a  gallant,  they  say; 
Nature's  endowed  him  with  many  a  charm: 
His  singing,  indeed,  would  endear  and  disarm; 
So  sweet  and  so  sad  that  no  one  as  yet, 
Who  once  heard  that  voice  could  ever  forget; 


THE    WILLOW  283 

But  from  the  day  that  his  father  had  died, 
That  song  was  frozen,  the  fountain  was  dried. 

How  did  he  know  her?    Say  what  mystery 
Holds  her  eye  riveted?    What  does  she  see 
In  this  pale  stranger?  or  what  memory 
Draws  them  together  in  such  harmony? 
If  he,  then,  knows  her,  why  this  strange  silence? 
If  she's  unknown  to  him,  why  thus  do  vi'lence 
To  that  frail  nature,  so  timid  and  flushing? 
No  one  is  conscious  of  why  she  is  blushing. 
But  when  one  timid  eye,  fearful,  revealing, 
Of  the  now  trembling  maid,  tired  of  concealing, 
Met  his  sharp  arrow-glance,  seeking  her  heart, 
Only  a  flash,  an  invisible  spark, 
Sprang  from  one  soul,  and  let  God  alone  mark. 
Then  bending  o'er  her,  thus  gently  spoke  he: 
"  Lovest  thou  me,  Georgette — lovest  thou  me?  " 

II 

Low  in  the  West  the  red  sun  declining, 
Pure  in  his  glow  the  bright  day-star  shining, 
On  the  dark  window  the  last  gleam  of  day 
Has  just  disconsolate  faded  away. 
Lingering  gleams  of  the  beautiful  light 
Pierce  from  afar  the  dark  veil  of  night; 
Winds  in  their  wand'rings  sad  echoes  arouse, 
And  Tiburce  waits  at  the  door  of  his  house. 
Two  powerful  en'mies  their  presence  have  shown 
In  the  old  house  of  the  student  so  lone — 


284  THE    WILLOW 

Time  and  ill-luck.    Thou  art  silent,  old  hall! 
Home  of  old  warriors  convivial. 
In  the  long  corridors  dark  as  the  tomb, 
Where  the  sad  echoes  are  lost  in  the  gloom, 
Here  where  retainers,  those  minist'ring  bands, 
Furnished  the  banquet  with  generous  hands, 
All,  all  are  gone,  and  but  one  lonely  light 
High  in  the  tower,  in  blackness  of  night, 
Serves  but  to  show  lurid  the  sorry  decay, 
Those  good  old  Feudal  days  long  past  away. 
Here  only  solitude,  poverty,  reign, 
And  lived  Tiburce  in  his  ruined  domain. 

An  old  laboratory's  arches  of  stone, 

Chose  for  his  studio,  dwelling  alone, 

Near  the  vicinity  of  a  rude  cave, 

That  once  might  have  been  grim  prison  or  grave, 

Mayhap  an  orat'ry's  more  sacred  gloom; 

For  many  an  altar  resembles  a  tomb. 

Deep  in  the  shade  of  that  silent  retreat 

Old  age  had  died  and  the  children's  light  feet 

Played,  and  the  maiden  with  sad,  mournful  eyes, 

Wept  as  she  watched  the  broad  standards  arise. 

Here,  later  still,  in  the  calm  of  the  stars, 

The  alchemist,  bending  at  work  with  his  jars, 

Failing  once  more  in  pursuit  of  his  quest 

After  that  mystical  ore  without  rest, 

Had  smitten  his  forehead  with  powerless  hand, 

Grown  timid  and  old  in  his  scrutiny,  and 


THE    WILLOW  285 

Idle  philosophers  weighing  a  thought, 
Probing  the  why  and  the  wherefore,  are  brought 
Smiling  to  own  that  the  efforts  they  trace, 
Shown  in  remains  of  the  old  Roman  ways, 
Are  but  a  portion  of  life's  vanities. 

At  his  bed's  foot  the  old  painting  was  hung 
Where  Raphael  has  pictured  the  family,  wrung 
By  grief,  are  removing  the  Christ  from  the  cross, 
Mary  demented,  bewailing  her  loss, 
Trying  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hand, 
Rigid  her  figure,  and  near  her  there  stand 
Daughters  to  comfort  her,  lifting  up  prayers, 
How  bitter,  how  tender  a  portion  is  theirs! 
Ah,  wound  of  the  heart  which  is  subtle  to  trace, 
So  quick  to  open,  so  slow  to  efface. 

One  more,  a  painting  from  Gericault's  brush, 
Vividly  showing  that  moment  of  hush 
When  Judith  the  treach'rous  holds  in  hand  soft, 
The  head  of  the  murdered  Allori  aloft. 
And  farther  the  light  of  a  flickering  lamp 
Prints  on  the  wall  with  a  fugitive  stamp 
A  shadow  of  marble,  though  broken,  sublime, 
Showing  a  hero,  the  sire  of  his  time. 

Thy  mem'ry,  hero!  we  trouble  in  vain; 
Thy  bust  hides  itself,  and  so  veiled  must  remain, 
Like  thine  image  so  darkened  on  Waterloo's 
plain. 


286  THE    WILLOW 

The  arts  are  our  friendly  gods;  those  sons  of 

peace 

Reign  'neath  your  arches  and  never  decrease ; 
Then  silent  study  with  comforting  kiss 
Soothes  your  grim  sorrow  and  reassures  bliss. 
And  thou  above  all,  sad  and  true  friend, 
To  whom  the  woful,  in  nights  without  end, 
Whisper  the  secrets  which  tear  at  their  hearts, 
Goddess  of  song,  to  whom,  when  sorrow  smarts, 
They  hail  as  "  Consoler  "  and  hold  out  their  arms, 
A  consoler  they  need  at  the  age  when  alarms, 
When  feverish  desires,  and  heats  of  the  blood 
Are  calling  for  changes  with  every  throb; 
When  from  the  door  of  life,  young  life  ob- 
serving 

Death  on  the  horizon  haunts  him  unswerving, 
'Mid  all  those  passions  which  come  in  their  turn, 
To  nest  in  the  heart  made  to  bless  or  to  burn, 
Interest  or  hatred,  ambition  or  love, 
Tiburce  knows  but  one,  the  worst,  it  may  prove; 
At  least  till  the  furrows  have  shown 
The  germs  of  the  others,  but  this  one  has  grown. 
As  to  that  secret  and  terrible  blight, 
The  bane  of  a  world  approaching  its  night, 
Contempt  of  creation,  of  life,  and  of  man, 
Whoe'er  imagined  him  under  its  ban? 
Why  has  he  sought  thus  to  live  all  alone? 
We  cannot  explain  it — no  reason  is  known. 
E'en  as  a  child  he  made  study  his  love; 
Ignored  by  the  rest,  he  unflinchingly  strove, 


THE    WILLOW  287 

Following  the  footsteps  of  those  to  whom  death 
Shows  up  the  secrets  of  being  and  breath. 
Poring  beneath  his  lamp  with  loving  zeal, 
Seeking  from  science  what  it  would  reveal, 
Barren  and  profitless,  all  uninviting, 
Sitting  all  night  at  work,  studiously  writing, 
Sometimes   in   darkness,   and   when   the   white 

moon, 

Hiding  her  rays  in  the  midnight  star-strewn, 
Dauntlessly  heedless  of  such  barren  task, 
Conning  the  laws  of  the  worlds,  and  he'd  ask 
News  of  that  starry  sea,  which  neither  fate, 
Nor  eye,  nor  thought  could  ever  calculate. 

But  ah!  now  numberless  evenings  have  passed 
Since  when  away  all  his  work  he  had  cast, 
Cloistered  in  walls  where  his  father  had  died, 
Alone  he  has  lived,  and  the  world  he  defied 
For  two  long  years  'neath  its  saddened  gray  roof, 
Meeting  no  eyes;  and  at  peace?    See  the  proof. 
For  the  few  friends  who  think  of  him,  give  him 

his  rights, 

Counting  the  days,  have  forgotten  the  nights. 
Sought  he  for  silence  in  hiding  away? 
Peace?    Was  it  rest?    Well,  be  that  as  it  may, 
What  was  his  reason?    Why,  no  one  knows  quite 
What  makes  him  stand  on  his  threshold  to-night. 

Night,  like  a  conqueror  swiftly  comes  on, 
With  rustling  banners,  by  winds  lightly  blown, 


288  THE    WILLOW 

Vast  shadow-armies  encroach  on  the  fields, 
Forcing  the  Sun's  retreat.     Slowly  he  yields; 
He  rests  on  the  mountain-top  his  failing  band, 
Sees  night's  dominion  o'er  all  the  dark  land, 
Throws  a  last  look  the  forest  askance, 
Redd'ning  the  landscape  with  his  dying  glance. 
So  dies  the  day,  and  twilight  lingers  not. 
Bleak,   wintry   night   triumphs   now   where   it 
fought. 

Now  scattered  groups  of  the  idlers  and  churls, 
Roaming  in  idleness,  flouting  the  girls, 
Are  still  discernible  through  the  dusk  light. 
Under  the  blackened  thatch,  gleams  warm  and 

bright, 

Warm  up  the  dwellings,  old,  ruined  and  gray, 
With  drip   from  the  boughs  and  the  winter's 

decay; 

Near  in  the  church  sweet  voices  are  ringing; 
Rising  like  incense  to  God  is  the  singing. 
The  wind's  wilder  music  is  rattling  the  panes, 
And  the  sad  sea  accords  with  its  booming  re- 
frains. 

Faint  discords  arising  which  plainly  bespeak 
That  license  which  comes  at  the  end  of  the  week ; 
Careless  carousers  have  thrown  thought  away, 
Forgetful  of  that  which  they  were  yesterday, 
Bathing  with  sweat  their  bread,  making  their 

moan, 
Scarcely  to  feel  that  their  soul  is  their  own; 


THE    WILLOW  289 

Sure  of  to-day,  and  no  care  for  to-morrow, 

Oblivion's  the  easiest  cure  for  all  sorrow. 

To  one  and  all  this  panacea's  given; 

Like  to  the  dew,  it  falls  straight  down  from 

heaven. 

To  recollect  or  forget  is  upon  earth 
Costly  elixir  of  marvelous  worth. 
Tiburce,  contemplating  this  passing  phase, 
Scarcely  perceiving  the  figures  in  haze, 
Motley  reflections  of  this  life  of  his 
Under  these  roofs,  how  the  sad  destinies, 
Follow  their  course  and  in  silence  endure, 
Tiburce  so  deemed  that  he  also  was  poor. 

Ah,  Poverty  cruel,  what  advantage  art  thou 
To  him  who  from  lean  breasts  drinks  milk's  bar- 
ren flow? 

To  what  shall  we  liken  a  commonplace  man, 
Who,  following  at  even  the  way  he  began, 
Walking  with  measured  step  his  lonely  way, 
Night  only  brings  him  sleep  for  the  next  day? 
Perhaps  it  is  wise;  a  less  heavy  wave 
Bends    down    more    slowly    his    head    to    the 

grave. 

But  he  whom  Genius  has  richly  endowed, 
When  the  thick  shadows  of  midnight  enshroud, 
By  the  pale  demon  Insomnia  pressed, 
Suffers  in  silence  and  findeth  no  rest. 
Lives  of  a  twofold  life,  what  is  he  here? 
When  at  the  gate  of  sleep  there  doth  appear, 


290  THE   WILLOW 

Like  angel  of  Paradise  set  there  to  guard, 
Invincible    thought,    with    its    bright,    naming 

sword, 

Excluding  sweet  sleep  as  an  unwelcome  guest, 
JReigns  o'er  his  pillow  and  changes  his  rest 
Into  a  solitude  vast  and  more  drear 
Than  the  grim  deserts  on  the  world's  frontier? 
But  hark !  in  the  silence  the  belfry's  lone  knell ; 
Tiburce  has  arisen.     "  For  prayer — it  is  well. 
So  be  it;  'tis  right — for  me  they  will  pray." 
And  so  he  departs  on  his  devious  way. 

Day  is  no  time  for  an  evil  devising; 
The  bold  are  imprudent,  all  caution  despising; 
Thought,  in  avoiding  the  world's  open  eyes, 
Takes  flight  to  the  deeps  of  the  heart  where  it 

lies. 

Night,  holy  night,  who  doth  ever  renew 
The  sun-beaten  flowers  with  tenderest  dew! 

Star  of  the  evening,  thou  bright  messenger, 
From  thy  blue  palace  that  shinest  afar, 
With  face  all  aglow  from  the  clouds  of  the  sun, 
Wherefore  this  watchfulness  over  the  plain? 

The  tempest  has  lulled,  and  the  winds  softly 

breathe ; 

The  forest,  a-tremble,  weeps  over  the  heath; 
The  butterfly  glided,  in  his  airy  flights, 
Crosses  the  sweet-scented  mead  and  alights. 


THE    WILLOW  291 

What  seekest  thou  on  the  bare,  sleeping  earth? 
So  fleet  to  the  mountains  I  see  thee  fly  forth ; 
Thou  fleest  smiling,  my  lachrymose  friend, 
And  thy  tremulous  glancing  has  come  to  an  end. 
Star  on  the  hills  with  thy  silvery  light, 
Dropping  bright  tears  from  the  mantle  of  night ; 
Thou  from  afar  seest  the  shepherd  retreat, 
While,  step  by  step,  his  flock  follow  his  feet. 
Star,  whither  goest  thou  out  from  the  host? 
Seek'st  thou  a  bed  of  reeds  on  some  lone  coast? 
Whither  away,  O  star,  wand'ring  forever, 
To  fall  like  a  pearl  in  the  lap  of  the  river? 
If  thou  must  die,  star,  and  if  thy  most  rare 
Form  in  the  vast  sea  must  plunge  its  blond  hair, 
Before  thou  dost  leave  us,  for  one  moment  stay; 
Star  of  sweet  love,  do  not  yet  go  away! 

Ill 

Answ'ring  her  friend,  Georgette  said,  "  It  is  true, 
I  love  to  roam  by  the  ocean's  deep  blue, 
And  see  the  waves  die  on  the  still  sleeping  sands." 
"  But  why  do  you  weep?  "  cried  Bell,  taking  her 

hands. 
"  Do  not  bid  me  to  cease,  Bell,  for  these  are  sweet 

tears — 
Sweet,  and  yet  causeless;  and  yet — Still  your 

fears ; 

Often  fear  has  its  charms.    It  is  pleasant  to  stay ; 
Let  us  remain  for  a  moment,  I  pray." 


292  THE    WILLOW 

"  Alas !  dear  Georgette,  I  must  do  as  you  say, 
But  the  night  is  fast  deep'ning.    God  aid  us,  I 

pray! 

But  tell  me,  dear,  what  does  this  trembling  por- 
tend? " 
Georgette  softly  sighed  as  she  looked  at  her 

friend : 
"  Before  each,  'tis  said,  in  our  journey  through 

life, 

A  double  path  stretches  and  causes  us  strife ; 
But  one,  and  one  only,  exists,  Bell,  for  thee ; 
Tell  me,  next  winter  how  old  you  will  be? 
Why,  of  course  I  should  know  it:  our  age  is  the 

same. 

How  silly  am  I  to  forget !  but  I  claim 
That  I  love  thee,  poor  Bell,  from  the  depth  of 

my  heart." 
"  Georgina,   what   ails   you?     We   really   must 

start. 
Here,  let  me  support  you,  and  lend  me  your 

hand. 
Your    limbs    are    a-tremble — you    scarcely    can 

stand." 
They  took  a  few  steps,  Georgette  trembling  and 

slow. 

"  Stop!  stop!  "  she  cried  out,  "  no  farther  I'll  go. 
I  cannot  flee  from  it!    Oh,  can  you  not  see? 
I'm  pale,  and  I  suffer?    It  seems  now  to  me 
That  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  wave 
Will  soon  lay  my  broken  heart  low  in  the  grave. 


THE    WILLOW  293 

Ah,  Bella!  my  Bella!  it's  only  through  thought, 
So  much  have  I  suffered,  so  much  have  I  fought ! 
What  a  terrible  night !  it  seemed  never  to  end — 
So  sweet,  yet  so  awful;  but  hearken,  my  friend." 
"  Speak,  dear  Georgina,  and  tell  me  thy  woe." 
'  Yes,  all  of  it,  Bella,  thou  oughtest  to  know. 
Oh,  lend  me  thy  hopefulness,  dear,  to  defend 
And  comfort  my  soul — my  sister,  attend. 
It  is  from  happiness,  Bella,  I  die. 
My  life  like  a  stream  to  the  ocean  sweeps  by; 
To  thee  all  these  waters,  these  woods,  are  mute; 
Come,  let  me  speak  of  their  secret  repute." 


IV 

Here  on  a  meadow  the  dew-moistened  heath 
Bends  by  the  wind  of  the  evening's  soft  breath; 
The  castle  of  Smolen,  that  ven'rable  hall, 
Lifts  its  sad  portals  and  frowns  over  all. 
There,  at  the  foot  of  those  walls,  Tiburce  stays; 
Dismounting,  he  listens,  and  meanwhile  his  gaze 
Scans  the  damp  windows,  where  now  and  again 
Shadows  within  cast  their  forms  on  the  pane. 
"  Feasting  again,"  said  Tiburce  with  a  sneer; 
"  Has  she  deceived  me  somehow,  I  fear? " 
As  a  low  sound  on  the  hill  caught  his  ear. 
He  was  unarmed  and  alone,  and  surmised 
Some  one  a  plot  to  betray  had  devised. 


294  THE    WILLOW 

With  hesitant  step  he  approaches  the  gates; 
Under  the  portal's  deep  shadow  he  waits; 
Just  then  a  window  attracting  his  eye, 
Calls  him  to  make  reconnaissance  thereby. 
What  a  surprise  is  revealed  to  his  gaze, 
Near  the  warm  hearth  with  its  bright,  crackling 

blaze — 

Smolen  the  elder,  with  fatherly  care, 
Leading  the  others  in  family  prayer! 
O'er  the  old  warrior,  once  so  terrific, 
Holiness  hovers  on  wings  beatific. 
He  prays,  and  two  women,  in  lowly  devotion, 
Lift  up  their  souls  in  a  fervent  emotion. 
Tiburce   knows   their   faces,   one   old,   but   the 

other — 

Defiler,  defiler,  why  comest  thou  hither? 
Though  she  is  kneeling,  the  chants  of  the  saints 
No  more  entrance  her — she  trembles,  and  faints! 
Why  does  she  tremble,  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground? 
Is  not  thy  father  the  friend  to  be  found 
Truer,  and  trusting  thy  truth  as  his  own, 
Even  now  blessing  thy  name  at  the  throne, 
As   the   child   of  his   comfort?   Alas!   for   thy 

love, 

Thine  angel  takes  flight  at  his  step  like  a  dove. 
Her  sire  entertains  of  suspicion  no  breath; 
His  sixty  long  years  have  augmented  his  faith. 
Pale  is  the  maiden  arising  from  prayer. 
Bow  down,  Georgina,  most  sacred  the  place, 
Receiving  his  blessing  and  loving  embrace. 


THE    WILLOW  295 

Press  to  your  burning  lips,  while  you  remain, 
The  hand  of  the  old  man  again  and  again; 
Hearken,  thy  heart  beating  sweet,  lady  fair, 
Pulsing  with  throbs  of  love,  "  Tiburee  is  there." 

Yes,  he  is  there,  Georgette,  watching  for  thee; 
Thy  father's  fond  blessing  he  also  can  see. 
There  at  the  door,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
Watching,  and  scheming  a  method  of  flight, 
Haste!  time  is  flying,  the  daylight  is  dying, 
The  bright  stars  arise,  and  a  low  wind  is  sighing. 

The  castle  is  wrapped  in  the  stillness  of  night, 
Though  here  and  there  shining  is  seen  a  dim 

light; 

Soft  steps  are  heard  moving,  the  crack  of  a  door ; 
Tiburce  stands  listening,  silence  once  more. 

Who  has  not  felt  the  sensation  of  fear 
In  the  deep  night,  when  no  mortal  is  near, 
And  turned  back  in  fright,  for  there,  at  his  side, 
Behind  him,  before  him,  a  form  seems  to  glide? 
In  darkness  of  night  he  descries  hues  of  fire 
Crossing  each  other  like  strands  of  gold  wire, 
And,  fearful,  imagines  he  hears  sounds  of  strife, 
Which  warn  of  the  robber,  e'en  seeking  his  life, 
With  phantoms  and  fears  in  the  shadow  so  deep, 
For  night  is  the  time  man  is  destined  for  sleep. 
There,  in  the  dark,  terror  flies  overhead, 
Like  wind  in  the  trees,  in  that  moment  of  dread, 


296  THE    WILLOW 

In  solitude  deep  he  is  frightened  and  pale; 
With  fear  his  poor  heart  seems  ready  to  fail. 

In  a  window's  dark  angle,  embrasured  and  wide, 
Tiburce  alone  in  the  shadow  doth  stride; 
Impatient  he  waits  in  the  gloom  of  the  night, 
Till  a  white  form  appears  in  the  moon's  silver 

light, 

And  she  glides  to  his  arms  in  a  tender  embrace. 
"  Alas!  two  long  years!  "  and  her  voice  seemed  to 

die 
On  her  pale,  icy  lips  in  a  murmuring  sigh. 


"  How  now,  my  lord?  why  so  gloomy  a  brow? 
Hide  not  from  me  what  perplexes  you  now. 
You  knelt  not  this  morn  at  the  source  of  relief. 
I'm  surely  afflicted  to  find  you  in  grief." 
'*  Tis  nothing — a  trifle,"  said  he  with  a  frown; 
"  But  where  is  your  daughter?    She  cometh  not 

down." 
"  My  dear  lord,  she  loves  you — is  pleased  when 

you're  glad, 
And  shares  in  your  sorrow  whene'er  you  are 

sad." 

She  weeps  with  emotion:  "  Smolen,  with  dread 
I  ask  you,  what  called  you  last  night  from  your 

bed? 


THE    WILLOW  297 

You  bade  me  be  silent,  but,  Smolen,  I  know, 
That  roads  and  the  roofs  were  covered  with  snow. 
Something-  mysterious  did  draw  you  away; 
For  the  sake  of  our  friendship,  tell  me,  I  pray.'* 
"  Lea\e  me  at  present;  don't  you  see  I  am  ill?  " 
"  111,  Smolen — ill?    And  you  yet,  without  reason, 
Rose  in  the  night,  in  this  inclement  season, 
Exposing  yourself  to  the  tempest's  rude  blast, 
And  I,  who'd  have  hindered,  you  silenced,  and 

passed 

Much  like  an  assassin  with  evil  design. 
Yes,  you  are  ill,  and  there's  no  skill  of  mine 
Can  avail  for  your  cure;  your  heart  is  the  source 
Of  the  pain  you  endure.    What  ailment  is  worse? 
Great  God  of  Pity!    He  calls  for  his  sword! 
Where,  where  are  you  going?    Don't  leave  us, 

my  lord ! " 

"  There,  there,  it  is  over,"  the  old  man  replied; 
"  But  where  is  my  daughter?  "  he  bitterly  cried. 


VI 

Here  with  a  majesty  on  the  deep  walls 
Gnawing  eternal  the  sea-billow  falls. 
From  the  womb  of  the  ocean  uprises  the  sun, 
Young  and  victorious,  his  purpose  to  run; 
Soul  of  the  Worlds  all  above  and  below, 
Great  ocean  inconstant,  of  ebb  and  of  flow, 
Weary  of  following  the  moon  overhead 
Thy  goddess  divine  of  the  soft,  silent  tread — 


298  THE    WILLOW 

Under  the  sunlight  now  rests  and  retreats 
In  thy  vast  billows  the  doomed  sky  repeats, 
The  earth  smiles  upon  thee,  and  all,  ev'ry where, 
Bask  in  thy  light  at  this  moment  of  prayer; 
Great,  Sublime  Spirit  of  light  and  of  birth, 
Resting  thy  face  on  the  center  of  earth, 
Fettered  by  Heaven,  a  pris'ner  remains. 
Thou,  whose  great  arm  o'er  the  heavenly  plains 
Guides  the  great  sun  'mid  the  scintillant  spheres, 
O'er  the  invisible  pathway  he  steers, 
And  makes  with  a  glance  or  a  fleeting  desire 
The  comet's  hyperbola  merge  in  the  fire. 
Thou  canst  invoke,  or  the  tempest  allay, 
Over  the  face  of  this  our  globe  of  clay; 
Man  to  his  Maker  upraising  his  face, 
Dreams  immortality  for  a  poor  space; 
He  passes,  and  fades,  but  not  to  the  dark, 
For,  like  unto  thee,  he  enfoldeth  a  spark 
Of  that  central  life  and  eternal  reward, 
Toward  which  the  world  with  a  yearning  re- 
gard 

Holds  out  her  arms  to  the  God  of  her  fate, 
Ready  to  die  should  he  not  animate. 

When  God  first  created  the  world  with  a  word, 
He  formed  it  to  perish;  on  thee  he  conferred 
Immortality's  rights,  but  a  lone  solitude, 
And  all  with  his  love  he  has  richly  endued. 
The  torrent  divine  of  the  infinite  springs, 
Thou  God  of  the  youthful,  who  evermore  brings 


THE    WILLOW  299 

All  of  the  wealth  and  the  joy  that  we  crave, 
At  times  smiling  gladly,  at  times  seeming  grave. 
What  availeth  the  sea,  its  calms  and  its  dreads, 
Or  worlds  without  name  rolling  over  our  heads, 
This  time  and  this  life,  to  the  heart  that's  on  fire, 
Thou  father  of  dreams,  loved  son  of  desire? 
Thy  daughters  will  crown  thee  with  flowers  at 

their  best; 
Thy  mother  will  lull  thee  to  sleep  on  her  breast. 

At  the  bright  hour  of  hope  when  daylight  is 

born, 

The  bird  of  the  furrows  announces  the  morn ; 
The  walls  of  the  city  loom  up  stern  and  gray; 
To  his  lone  home  Tiburce  is  wending  his  way. 
Hushed  is  the  heath,  the  meadows,  the  mart, 
And  all,  e'en  to  memory,  is  hushed  in  his  heart. 
For  nature  and  man  are  occasional  times 
When    life    seems   to   slumber    and    happiness 

chimes. 

There's  a  pause,  a  great  calm,  an  ecstasy  sweet. 
That  traveler  Time  with  invisible  feet 
Who  on  to  eternity  maketh  his  way, 
Now  sits  by  the  wayside  in  pensive  delay. 

Oh,    burning    the    flame — like    the    hot    desert 

sand — 

Which  hand  of  the  loved  one  has  left  to  the  hand ; 
The  lip  to  the  lip,  and  soul  to  the  soul, 
In  sight  of  thy  pleasure,  O  night!  we  extol. 


300  THE    WILLOW 

'Tis  dawn  that  should  vanish  and  fold  up  her 
wing; 

Why  wake  thee,  when  far  from  the  light  of  day- 
spring? 

When  thy  sweet  eyes  were  closing  in  passion's 
portal, 

With  accents  serene  of  thy  sisters  immortal: 

What  dost  thou  here,  lady  fair,  at  this  hour, 

Watching  the  waves  as  they  break  on  the  shore? 

Think'st  thou  to  follow  the  steps  of  thy  lover? 

The  tide  will  arise  and  the  waters  pass  over; 

The  foam  of  its  waves  will  deceive  thy  fair  eyes; 

Afar  thou'lt  conceive  it  to  be  paradise! 

Where  of  thy  loved  one  is  centered  the  power? 

Go  in,  heart  of  love!  the  east  wind  this  hour 

With  keen  chilling  breath  carries  ice  in  its  blast. 

Return  to  the  manor  and  think  of  the  past. 

Under  the  light  mists  which  cover  the  earth, 
Tiburce  returns  to  the  home  of  his  birth. 
Its  presence  gave  promise  of  shelter  at  least; 
Its  front  a  warm  glow  from  the  light  of  the  east. 
Just  at  the  moment  when  closing  his  door, 
He  felt  it  resisting,  and,  almost  before 
He  could  stop  to  consider,  was  gripped  like  a 

vise, 
With  a  strong  hand  of  iron  that  chilled  him  like 

ice. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  said  he,  as  he  strove  to  get  free. 
"  Sir,"  said  old  Smolen,  "  just  listen  to  me." 


THE    WILLOW  301 

VII 

How  strangely  unusual,  at  this  time  of  day, 

To  see  in  the  cloister  the  sisters  betray 

Such  signs  of  excitement,  and  pass  one  by  one. 

The  turmoil  increases,  much  talking  is  done, 

Then  all  at  once  ceases,  and  all  for  a  space, 

Silently  questioning  look  in  each  face, 

As  though  in  the  fear  of  some  untoward  event. 

"  Hush!  it's  a  moan! "  said  a  sister  intent; 

"  I  heard  it;  it  seems,  one  would  say,  like  a  voice 

Of   some   one   in  suff'ring.    Again,   hear  that 

noise!  " 

It  came  from  a  cave  around  which  stood  a  band 
Kneeling,  in  tears,  crucifixes  in  hand. 
"  O  sisters,  pale  sisters!  o'er  whom  do  you  pray? 
Which  of  your  comrades  is  dying  to-day? 
Which  of  you  sisters  will  still  seek  a  lost 
Reminder  of  days  forgotten  by  most? 
Ye  daughters  of  God,  ye  who  count  them  so  few, 
Whether  fate  spares  them,  or  asks  them  of  you. 
You  await  death  in  your  garments  of  woe, 
Dressed  like  the  bride  for  the  grave  where  you 

go. 
Who  knows  which  is  greater  for  you  in  your 

gloom : 
From  life  to  the  cloister,  or  cloister  to  tomb? 

Reclined  on  the  edge  of  a  couch  lying  there, 
A  woman,  mere  child,  very  frail,  but  still  fair, 


302  THE    WILLOW 

Seemed  in  her  striving  to  struggle  with  death, 
Waving  her  arms  as  though  panting  for  breath ; 
With  impotent  efforts  at  kissing  the  cross, 
She  weeps,  and  she  screams,  and  she  calls  out  her 

loss — 

For  her  mother — O  sisters,  what  can  she  mean? 
For  it  is  not  thus  that  one  dies  at  sixteen." 

Twice  has  the  sun  risen  fair  o'er  the  water 
Since  to  this  cloister  an  old  man  had  brought  her. 
She  was  left  kneeling  when  he  went  away, 
And  when  she  arose  again,  pallor  so  gray 
Compelled  her  to  reach  forth  an  arm  for  a  stay, 
And  e'er  since  that  moment  did  nothing  but  pray. 

Say  your  prayers  over  her — pray  for  the  dying, 
So  young  and  weak,  and  her  trembling  hand 

lying, 

Points,  as  she  dies,  to  the  seat  of  the  smart, 
And  whate'er  her  illness,  it  came  from  the  heart. 
Know  you  the  care  that  a  young  maiden  needs? 
Easy  to  shatter  that  frailest  of  reeds. 
Under  a  light  touch  it  bows  and  it  bends; 
Homelike  security,  love  of  her  friends, 
These  are  her  strong  supports;  let  but  one  fail 

her, 

Adieu !  only  pray.    If  at  last  death  assail  her, 
When  light  of  Heaven  opened  upon  her, 
She  would  say  before  dying,  as  did  Desdemona, 
"  Too  much  love  killed  her."     Then  there  are 

others, 


THE    WILLOW  303 

Sweetest  of  creatures  now  under  the  sun, 

On  whom  Heaven's  bounties  are  poured  one  by 

one; 

Tender  and  good,  and  too  charming  for  toil, 
Whom  man,  though  he  harmeth,  he  never  can 

soil. 

Misfortune,  that  dry -handed,  churlish  old  man, 
Seeing  them  droop  their  heads  ere  he  began 
To  tarnish  their  beauty  or  compass  their  doom 
A  throne  must  be  theirs,  or  they  sink  to  the  tomb. 

'Tis  sad  to  consider,  there  have  been  others 
Whom  death  has  snatched  from  the  arms  of  their 

mothers, 

Whom  Heaven  had  destined  to  happiness  only; 
Such  is  she  also,  who,  dying  there  lonely, 
Raising  her  heavy  head  with  weak  endeavor, 
Strives  to  support  it  on  arm  all  a-quiver ; 
She  listens,  she  watches  without  intermission 
Through  the  stained  glass  in  the  massive  parti- 
tion. 

A  glorious  morning  doth  vanquish  the  night; 
Earth  is  reviving  with  heat,  life,  and  light. 
When  a  beautiful  sky  dawns  bright  upon  earth, 
And  the  aspect  of  boons  all  cherished  from  birth, 
Show  to  our  fading  sight  in  their  true  light, 
Then  we  perceive  what  a  desert  of  blight 
Our  life  has  been  always,   but  then,  there  is 

hope. 
Chief  of  celestial  guards,  ready  to  cope 


304  THE    WILLOW 

With  death,  and  to  watch  over  pain  to  the  end, 
Who  throws  on  the  dying  flame  perfumes  to 

blend, 

And  even  when  death  has  removed  to  the  deep, 
She  lulls  with  her  singing,  Pain  falling  asleep. 

Far  over  the  sea  as  her  glance  can  attain, 
The  eyes  of  the  child  on  the  waters  remain. 
"What!  nothing?"  she  murmurs,  and  can  she 

abide, 

With  death's  slow  advances  on  that  other  side? 
The  ocean  rolls  round,  and  the  world  seems  to 

turn 

With  sudden  upheaval — confusion!  concern! 
"  Angels  of  Heaven! "  they  exclaim  in  surprise, 
"  Is  it  forever  she's  closing  her  eyes?  " 

The  door  at  that  instant  resounded — then  hush! 
A  footstep — a  young  man  comes  in  with  a  rush ; 
He's  clothed  in  a  cassock.  All  near  stand  aside, 
While  he  hurries  past  them  with  passionate 
stride. 

"  Sisters,  the  novice — where  is  she?  declare?  " 
He  sees  her.    A  sigh  in  the  shade  over  there. 
Then,   in  tones   which   direct   affirmation   com- 
mands. 

"  Georgette,  do  you  hear  me? "  he  loudly  de- 
mands. 

The  friar,  in  utt'ring  these  words,  bared  his  head, 
But  the  eyes  of  the  sick  one,  half  open,  betrayed 


THE    WILLOW  305 

Not  a  blank  recognition;  her  dull,  haggard  gaze 
Was  veiled  by  a  cloud  as  though  lost  in  dim 

space. 

He  doubted;  his  soul  felt  the  quick  flash  of  fate, 
"  Leave  us  alone,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  too  late!  " 

The  sky  has  grown  dark;  the  face  of  the  dying 
Is  losing  its  outline  beneath  the  light  lying. 
By  her  bedside  the  crucifix,  needed  no  more, 
Has  slipped  from  her  hands  and  dropped  to  the 

floor. 

Silence  now  reigns  in  the  convent's  gray  walls ; 
A  deep,   profound  hush,  sad  and  mournfully 

falls, 

A  feeble,  low  moaning  is  now  and  then  heard; 
The  friar  sits  motionless,  strangely  disturbed, 
Beneath  the   bed's   hangings  with  lowly  bent 

brow, 

Pleading,  commanding,  and  calling  her  now. 
Then  they  all  noticed  a  change  in  his  mood, 
Strange  gestures,  and  words  that  were  not  un- 
derstood, 

Disjointed  remarks  in  a  low  monotone, 
Which  suddenly  ceased.     They  had  left  him 

alone 

By  the  patient's  bedside,  because  of  his  claim 
To  belong  to  an  order  revered  in  its  name. 
The  monk  in  his  anguish  and  care  raised  his 

head, 
And  saw  the  pale  winding-sheet  hung  on  the  bed. 


306  THE   WILLOW 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  horrified  air, 

And,  gazing  around  with  a  look  of  despair, 

"  Too  late!  I'm  too  late! "  was  his  heart-broken 

plaint, 
And  swayed,  as  he  fell  to  the  ground  in  a  faint. 

You,  who  have  once  been  acquainted  with  grief, 
Ye,  who  have  wept  and  have  prayed  for  relief 
Over  your  dead,  have  you  sometimes  reflected 
How  much  suffers  he  who,  watching,  dejected, 
Alone  by  the  couch  where  he  sees  his  love  slip 
O'er  the  verge,  know  how  futile  the  grip 
Of  hand  which  he  hastens  to  hold  out  to  cheer? 
He  who  has  bent  his  blanched   face  o'er  the 

bier, 

With  burning  eye  scanning  the  face  of  his  love 
For  a  flicker  of  pain,  as  a  symptom  to  prove 
That  she  lives,  and  his  soul  upon  the  adored 
Still  hangs,  as  the  fruit  to  the  bough  which  a 

sword 

Has  severed.    And  as  he  curses  the  sight 
Of  the  day,  and  its  garish  detestable  light, 
His  heart's  full  of  life  which  he  can  not  impart, 
And  hope  has  expired  in  his  desolate  heart. 
What   remains  now?     Without   hope,   without 

fear, 

He  looks  on  these  features  so  calm  and  austere. 
That  death's  mask  of  horror.    These  limbs,  long 

and  thin, 
That  figure  so  rigid,  where  life  once  has  been, 


THE   WILLOW  307 

These  eyes,  and  that  mouth  which  e'en  now  re- 
tain, 

Regardless  of  death,  still  their  fell  look  of  pain. 

He  raises  the  hands ;  they  fall  icily  back. 

He  doubts  of  his  saneness ;  his  soul's  on  the  rack. 

Death  wags  her  head,  and  with  finger  points  out 

To  the  being  stretched  there,  without  life  or 
thought. 

VIII 

Yes,  all  is  finished;  dust  falls  back  on  dust; 
The  priest  has  returned  to  his  work,  as  he  must; 
Thou  hast  vanished  away,  lone  flower,  of  whose 

bloom 

But  nothing  remains  save  a  nameless  cold  tomb. 
No  mourner  has  followed  her  mortal  remains; 
No  footprint  is  left  on  the  road  o'er  the  plains; 
Her  sire  was  too  feeble,  and  now  she  is  gone. 
Perchance  by  to-morrow  he'll  follow  her  on. 
So,  poor  girl,  go  to  thine  unnoticed  grave, 
Under  the  stones  where  the  long  grasses  wave. 
The  soil  is  most  fertile,  and  soon  will  rebloom 
Over  the  debris  now  covering  thy  tomb. 
Old  Earth!  thou  who  knowest  how  well  to  keep 
The  dead,  whom  the  surges  throw  up  from  the 

deep. 

Fertile  corruption  goes  on  day  by  day, 
Ever  demanding  new  life  from  decay. 
What,  then,  art  thou  but  a  sepulcher,  World, 
Whose  mythical  emblem's  a  serpent  incurled. 


308  THE    WILLOW 

But  you,  dreams  of  mirth  and  of  love,  childhood's 

song, 
And  thou,  mystic  charm,  thou  defense  against 

wrong. 

Which  made  Faustus  falter  before  Marguerite, 
Sweet  fence  of  the  home  wherein  dwells  no  de- 
ceit, 

Thou  primitive  candor,  thou  spirit  of  truth, 
What  has  become  of  you,  Guardian  of  Youth ! 

Deep  peace  to  thy  soul,  thou  of  sad  memories! 
Adieu!  thy  white  hand  on  the  ivory  keys 
Will  never  again  evoke  sweet  melodies. 


IX 

Glide   on,    fairest   ship,    in   the   midst    of   the 

night; 
The  shores  of  fair  Scotland  recede  from  thy 

sight. 
"  Let  all  eyes  be  on  him,  and  watch  him  with 

care, 
This  young  man  in  mourning  who  stands  alone 

there." 

At  the  stern  of  the  ship,  leaning  over  the  sea, 
He  sang  with  wild  looks,  in  an  ecstasy  he; 
Twice  have  they  saved  him ;  they  feared  he  would 

fall, 
And  still  the  sweet  melody  witches  them  all. 


THE    WILLOW  309 

The   wind   softly   blows,   the   bright   stars   are 

gleaming. 
"  The   willow,"   he   whispers,   he   speaks   as   if 

dreaming. 

"Barbara!  Barbara!  under  the  willow." 
His  voice  sinks  and  falls  like  the  storm-driven 

billow. 
"  Children,  watch  o'er  him,  his  strength  seems  to 

fail." 
But  still  he  sang  on  with  a  cheek  blanched  and 

pale. 
In  falling,  his  voice  ceased.     "  Say,  can  he  be 

dead? " 

"  Children,  the  sea  is  rough;  put  him  to  bed." 
"  Ensign,"  the  sailor's  voice  answered  once  more, 
"  This  mourning  cloak  covered  wound  deep  and 

sore, 
Whence  his  blood,  drop  by  drop,  fell  evermore." 

1830. 


MARDOCHE 

Would  you  mean,  as  indeed,  one  may  logically  infer,  that 
formerly  the  world  which  had  been  foppish  should  now  have 
become  wise  ? — Pantagruel,  Book  V. 


I  MADE,  last  year,  the  acquaintance  of  a  youth 
Mardoche  by  name,  who  hermit  was;  in  truth, 
A  prodigy!    In  this  wise,  he  has  never  read 
Le  Journal  de  Paris,  nor  novels  in  his  bed. 
He  ne'er  saw  Kean,  nor  Bonaparte,  nor  yet 
Monsieur  de  Metternich ;  but  kept  a  cat. 
To  supper  he  returned  at  certain  hour 
To  feed  the  cat,  e'en  though  caught  in  a  shower. 
Let  Hugo  go  to  see  his  Phoebus  die. 
Mardoche  cared  not  to  either  laugh  or  cry. 

II 

Be  satisfied  to  know  for  parentage 

In  the  maternal  line  of  lineage 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  was  his  ancestress.* 

And  then  he  had  a  friend  he  could  caress, 

An  English  dog  of  most  exalted  blood, 

Whose  master's  words  are  always  understood. 

*  This  is  evidently  a  sarcasm. — Tr. 
310 


MARDOCHE  311 

He  had  a  bilious  temperament,  was  ill, 
And  did  his  leisure  moments  blandly  fill 
By  cultivating  art  of  writing  verse. 
To  call  on  him,  the  Muse  was  not  averse. 


Ill 

But  this  strong-minded  rascal,  sentiment 
Avoided  willingly,  as  if  on  health  intent. 
He  willingly  would  make  a  lamp  that  shed 
Its  rays  from  out  the  eyes  of  dead  man's  head. 
He'd  sup  his  soup  from  skull  of  grandma  dear, 
Thought  man  a  mule,  and  God  a  muleteer. 
Having  deprived  himself  of  books,  perchance, 
He  read  too  much  of  but  one  book  in  France. 
I  mean  the  human  heart,  and  hence  his  wit 
Was  too  precocious,  yet  he  worshiped  it. 


IV 

I  certify,  however,  that  his  soul 
Was  tender,  and  was  in  his  wife's  control. 
He  would  be  no  more  harsh  to  her  if  she 
Had  made  him  a  sweet  cuckold  in  her  glee! 
He  held  precise  opinions,  and  his  chat 
Adorned  the  camp  of  the  aristocrat. 
Was  so  conservative,  a  love  would  lurk 
For  Sultan  Mahmoud  and  the  bloody  Turk. 
For  Christian  Smyrna  and  Hellenic  blood, 
Our  hero  cared  not,  by  the  holy  rood! 


312  MARDOCHE 

V 

But  that  does  not  affect  our  hero  here, 
Let  people  die  if  he  has  naught  to  fear. 
Complacent  thus  he  lived  an  easy  life 
Without  experience  of  anxious  strife. 
Was  it  ambition,  or  but  foolish  love? 
Most  likely  both  infatuations  prove. 
Whate'er  the  cause  that  caused  a  change  of  plan, 
This  is  what  happened  to  my  quondam  friend, 
Mardoche,  before  he  saw  his  latter  end. 

VI 

I  will  not  tell  you  which  gay  dowager 
Dying  conveniently,  did  leave  of  her 
Wealth  to  Mardoche,  who  then,  forthwith,  be- 
came 

A  dandy,  with  the  money  of  the  dame. 
O  four  times  blessed  dowager,  in  peace 
Rest  thee,  and  may  thy  sorrows  have  surcease 
Because  when  coughing  thou  didst  spit  up  blood, 
And  call  for  priest  and  kiss  the  holy  rood. 
Thy  forehead  was  anointed,  coffin  sealed, 
And  portly  form  was  evermore  concealed. 

VII 

Thy  furniture  at  auction  scattered  wide, 
Each  piece  did  sacrifice  thy  family  pride. 
Of  wedding-gown  was  made  an  umberell; 
Thy  dressing-room,  ye  gods,  became  a  hell! 


MARDOCHE  313 

Four  greyhounds  chased  the  cat  from  carpet 

where 

The  best  of  France  had  once  assembled  there. 
Thy  cushion  where  thy  slipper  once  reposed 
Or  where  the  cat  in  confidence  had  dozed 
Sees  pussy  now,  his  tail  blown  by  the  wind, 
Cling  to  the  roof,  the  prey  of  fate  unkind. 

VIII 

I  will  not  tell  you  to  which  lady  fair 
Mardoche  had  given  of  his  soul  a  share. 
To  whom  he  owed  those  lessons,  doubly  sweet, 
The  loved  one  gives  the  lover  at  her  feet. 
I  will  not  tell  you  at  what  festival 
They  held  a  tete-a-tete,  or  fancy  ball. 
Where  one  or  both  had  ventured  a  love  glance 
Doubtless  the  circumstance  was  largely  chance. 
What  do  I  know  of  it  in  any  case? 
To  follow  sight  is  but  a  wild  goose  chase. 

IX 

One  may,  indeed,  forget  appointed  tryst, 
One's  luck,  one's  birthday,  or  a  blow  of  fist, 
Even  borrowed  money,  yes,  one  may  forget 
One's  wife  and  friends,  or  dog,  one's  only  pet. 
But  never  has  a  madman  at  death's  door, 
Void  of  his  wits,  nearing  Charon's  shore, 
Forgotten  the  first  woman's  voice  who  said 
In  softest  accent,  "  I'm  thine  own  sweet  maid.'* 


314  MARDOCHE 

How  sweet  the  words  "  I  love  you,  O  my  king," 
Once  hearing  these,  heaven's  bells  begin  to  ring. 


'Twas  in  mild  autumn  days,  October  sere, 
That    Mardoche    moved    again    with    mankind 

here. 

His  cook,  who  catered  to  his  daily  needs, 
Vexed  him  no  more  than  groom  who  fed  his 

steeds. 

But  neither  groom  nor  majordomo  laid 
Such  burden  on  his  heart  as  did  a  maid. 
Of  all  his  habits  nothing  seemed  to  change, 
But  yet  his  heart  'gan  suddenly  to  range. 
I  may  as  well  advise  that  he  as  neighbor  had 
Two  dark  Italian  eyes  that  snapped,  egad! 

XI 

I  do  adore  black  eyes  and  fair  blond  hair. 
Such  was  Rosine,  and  it  made  Mardoche  swear 
To  drown  in  them.    They  were  two  ebon  lights 
Set  in  a  crystal  sky:  like  keen  delights 
That  follow  long  continued  abstinence, 
They  sparkled  fearlessly  in  continence. 
Sharing  a  soul  infused  without  alloy, 
Speaking  the  tones  that  angels  but  employ. 
That  Mardoche  fancied  them  is  in  no  wise, 
Judicious  reader,  reason  for  surprise. 


MARDOCHE  315 

XII 

Believe  me,  since  beginning  of  December, 

The  weather  has  been  worse  than  I  remember. 

It  makes  me  lazy,  if  not  nearly  mad, 

To  keep  indoors  a  writing  on  my  pad. 

At  fireside  seated  in  my  easy  chair, 

My  chin  in  hand,  I  nestle  in  my  lair. 

And  while  the  north  wind  at  my  window  blows, 

I  write  some  novels,  as  you  may  suppose. 

And,  like  Prometheus,  give  the  flame  of  life 

To  many  women,  whether  maid  or  wife. 

XIII 

Blond  hair,  dark  brows,  forehead  red,  or  pale, 

Dante  loved  Beatrice, — so  runs  the  tale, 

And  Byron,  la  Guicciolo  fair, 

But  that  sweet  girl  that  would  my  heart  ensnare 

Would  live  in  Naples,  by  the  sun  made  dark, 

With  eyes  that  scintillate  a  heavenly  spark; 

A  swan-like  neck,  full  blooded  Turkish  lip, 

A  virgin  breast,  smooth  waist  and  rounded  hip: 

Such  as  Giorgione  loved  to  dream, 

Or  such  as  this  tale  which  tells  of  sweet  Rosine. 

XIV 

It  is  with  love  as  litanies,  my  friend, 
Of  Virgin  worshipers,  they  never  end. 
Once  we've  begun,  we  can  not  stop  again, 
For  like  forbidden  fruit,  we  eat  amain. 


316  MARDOCHE 

Thus  every  evening  when  one  seeks  repose, 
The  sun  being  set,  my  friend  Mardoche  arose, 
Peered    through    half -opened    blind    with    his 

lorgnette, 

Defying  all  the  rules  of  etiquette. 
He  scrutinized  Rosine  from  eve  till  dawn. 
Though  long  the  vigil,  he  would  never  yawn. 

XV 

Ye  wise  philosophers,  explain  to  me 
Wise  demigods,  how  this  can  surely  be. 
Here  is  a  man  who  would  not  steal  a  sou, 
And  yet  he'll  steal  your  very  wife  from  you. 
A  wife! — I  must  explain,  for  reader's  sake, 
That  sweet  Rosine  possessed  a  husband's  name. 
She  once  received, — by  notary  indorsed, 
A  spouse  in  Dijon,  and  was  not  divorced. 
'Tis  thought  with  reason,  ere  the  priest  appeared, 
Her  mother  told  her  all  she  hoped,  or  feared. 

XVI 

What  more  amusing  than  the  marriage  day; 

At  first,  of  course,  a  carriage  leads  the  way; 

The  rest  in  keeping,  without  undue  pride, 

The  worthy  Herbeau  was  well  satisfied. 

A  doll  amuses  one  at  six,  I  ween, 

As  much  as  does  a  husband  at  nineteen; 

All  things  have  ending.    Honeymoons  will  wane, 

Beginning  ravishing,  and  end  inane ! 


I 

MARDOCHE  317 

Love,  how  strange  and  perverse  is  its  mood, 
It  by  starvation  lives,  and  dies  of  food. 

XVII 

And  then,  alike  in  turn,  day  follows  day. 
Then  follows  weariness  when  none  will  play. 
Then  sleeps  pale  idleness,  and  leaves  her  door 
Opened.    Then  enter  love,  not  long  before 
Reason  departs,  and  life  is  quickly  filled. 
One  with  a  lover  and  his  love  is  thrilled, 
This  one  attacks  the  goddess,  like  hussar, 
And  that  one  plays  the  school-boy;  each  thus 

far 

Attains  his  object.     It  is  passing  strange; 
A  friend  who  dined  a  duchess  sought  to  change 

XVIII 

The  glasses.     Said  the  lady,  "Are  you  mad? 
You're  drinking  in  my  glass,  the  glass  I  had.'* 
The  ungallant  man  remarked,  "  Do  not  repine, 
For,  madam,  you  can  do  the  same  with  mine." 
The  trick,  dear  reader,  certainly  was  base. 
He  drank  her's  empty — a  deed  lacking  grace. 
Though  powdered,  I  admit  the  lady  blushed. 
What  could  she  do?     The  conversation  gushed. 
Heavens!    Who  can  tell  which  gains  reward  im- 
mense, 
Profound  respect, — or  ill-concealed  offense? 


318  MARDOCHE 

XIX 

I've  no  design  to  perpetrate  a  novel 
Much  as  a  man  might  hammer  out  a  shovel. 
An  author  who  advances  with  slow  tread, 
Puts  you  to  sleep  ere  heroine's  in  bed. 
'Tis  not  my  method,  for  you  will  allow 
Two  weeks  have  gone  already,  I  avow. 
One  Sunday  morning  early,  weather  fine, 
The  streets  were  almost  empty,  air  like  wine. 
The  crowd  was  sleeping  still,  some  dreamed  of 

Heaven 
One  Sunday  morning,  quarter  after  seven. 

XX 

Mardoche,  in  chestnut  coat,  and  hired  landau 

In  front  of  Tortoni's  made  passing  show. 

"  Look  out,"  the  coachman  shouted,  "  Mardoche 

rides!" 

Grisettes  on  foot,  trotting  with  pretty  strides, 
More  than  once,  no  doubt,  cast  at  the  coach 
Of  our  gay  hero,  looks  of  fierce  reproach. 
He  saw  them  not;  preoccupied  he  seemed, 
His  nimble  mind  on  some  deep  problem  dreamed. 
His  look  was  stiff,  he  was  no  diplomat, 
He  sat  in  state ;  and  wore  a  high  cravat. 

XXI 

Where  was  he  going?    Why  to  gay  Meudon. 
But  why  so  early,  and  when  there,  what  done? 


MARDOCHE  319 

He  soon  arrives.    Say  how  is  it  we  tell 
Our  village  by  the  sound  of  clanging  bell? 
The  bell  supposes  steeple,  steeple  church. 
And  the  church  a  cure,  and  the  cure's  porch, 
Requires  a  heavy  beadle,  who  in  truth 
May  be  the  school-master  of  village  youth. 
This  pedant  of  the  parish  was  indeed 
A  friend  of  Mardoche's  parents,  I  will  plead. 


XXII 

Thus  landed  at  Meudon  our  hero  placed 
His  carriage  safely  in  the  place  he  graced, 
Then  walked  away,  nor  looked  behind,  before, 
With  step  more  measured  than  a  senator. 
For  two  good  hours  he  used  his  active  feet 
Slow  strolling,  brushing  people  in  the  street. 
He  knew  from  old  times  that  the  good  cure 
On  Sunday  mornings  took  the  air  away 
From  home,  so  straying  from  the  cure's  door, 
He  sought  the  wood  where  he  had  been  be- 
fore. 

XXIII 

He  walked  not  thirty  steps,  till  facing  him, 
"  How   do   you   do,    good    father?     You   look 

trim!" 

The  old  man  was  surprised  to  tell  the  truth, 
To  see  as  in  a  dream  the  scheming  youth. 


320  MARDOCHE 

"  Thank  God  that  all  goes  well  with  me,  my  dear, 
I'm  glad  to  see  you.     Now  what  brings  you 

here?" 

"A  reason,  moral,  logical  and  wise. 
My  beard  and  bonnet  that  you  might  be  given 
A  patriarch's  age  to  guess  why  I've  arriven." 

XXIV 

The  day  was  glorious  and  the  lark's  sweet  song 
Made  music  in  the  air;  carts  rolled  along, 
And  made  the  highway  dusty.    Such  a  day 
As  cool  October  gives  us,  happily, 
The  mist  was  vanquished  by  the  morning  sun, 
And  all  was  fair  the  sunlight  lay  upon. 
"  Now  sit  you  down  my  son,"  the  priest  en- 
joined, 

This  is  the  sweetest  hour  of  all."    "  That  wind," 
Said  Mardoche,  "  is  a  usurer  indeed, 
Its  hand  is  in  your  pocket,  such  is  greed." 

XXV 

"  This  hour  of  beauty  is  the  hour  of  prayer, 
See  how  the  eternal  lifts  the  load  of  care 
From  feeble  mortals,"  said  the  good  cure. 
"  It  is  our  duty  to  give  thanks  and  pray," 
"  Good   father,"  said  Mardoche,   "  our  feet  in 

dew 
Means  a  low  level  for  the  creature  too." 


MARDOCHE  321 

"  Mountains,"  the  cure  said,  "  are  nearer  God. 
They  are  his  altars,  his  supreme  abode. 
Moses  could  see  him  on  the  flaming  peak." 
"A  man,"  said  Mardoche,  "  who  will  mountains 
seek, 

XXVI 

"  To  me  appears  but  like  a  foolish  fly 
On  the  top  of  sugar  loaf;  good  father,  I 
Admit  the  mountains  make  us  high;  our  feet 
I  can't  help  thinking  are  for  mud  to  greet." 
"  Your  hair  is  golden,"  said  the  priest,  "  and 

mine 

Is  snowy  white ;  you'll  wiser  grow  in  time." 
Said  Mardoche,  smiling  with  sarcastic  smile, 
"  Science  of  mankind  is  a  form  of  guile." 
Then  sitting  down,  "  I'll  leave  such  love  to  you. 
I  came  to  have  a  business  talk,  'tis  true. 


XXVII 

"  You  said  but  lately,  '  I  am  young/  therefore, 

I  am  in  love,  a  mistress  I  adore. 

'Tis  my  misfortune  she  a  husband  hath 

With  windows  high  at  end  of  narrow  path." 

"  I  saw  you  at  your  birth,"  the  priest  replied, 

"  I  held  you  the  baptismal  font  beside. 

Your  father  took  you  from  the  nurse's  arms 

And  as  he  hushed  your  innocent  alarms, 


322  MARDOCHE 

He  said,  '  I  place  him  under  Church's  care. 
May  he  be  saved  from  sin  and  Heaven  share.' ' 

XXVIII 

"  My  ill-luck,"  said  Mardoche,  "  is  that  the  fair 

By  nature  are  so  cruel.    I  despair, 

I  understand  you  well  and  know  'tis  wrong. 

But,  sir,  should  we  our  agony  prolong?  " 

"  I  know,"  replied  the  cure,  "  that  the  world 

Is  where  a  man  in  misery  is  hurled, 

Only  in  abnegation  is  content." 

"Allow  me,"  said  Mardoche,  "  with  your  consent, 

To  tell  my  story.     She,  I  fondly  love, 

I  cannot  see,  no  matter  how  I  strive." 

XXIX 

"  Then,"    said   the   cure,    "  God   indeed   you've 

grieved. 

Who  is  the  unhappy  man  you  have  deceived?  " 
"  Unhappy? "    said    Mardoche,    "  He    nothing 

knows." 

"  He  knows  nothing,  my  son?    ~No  deep  repose 
Is    given    secrets."      "  Well,"    said    Mardoche, 

"  think 

I  babble  seldom  and  ne'er  use  ink." 
;<  Well,  even  so,  my  son,  I  want  to  know 
Is  hidden  wound  but  less  so  fierce  a  foe? 
Will  you  the  less  give  aught  of  deep  distress 
To  bond  the  hand  of  holy  Church  may  bless? 


MARDOCHE  323 

XXX 

'  Will  you  the  less  commit  a  deep  outrage 
To  social  laws,  or  less  clean  life  enrage 
Even  if  the  secret  fellow  men  condone? 
How  will  it  look  before  th'  Eternal  throne? 
This  world  is  but  the  phantom  of  an  hour, 
With  all  eternity  man  fights  for  power." 
"  We'll  leave  this  subject,"  said  Mardoche,  "  I 

see 

Your  cranium  and  mine  own  do  not  agree. 
I  told  you  how  my.  misfcrww  is  encaged 
And  with  her  ket)H  r  engaged." 

X> 

/ 

"  And,"  said  the  priest,  "  'tis  eminent      right, 
That  she  should  never  leave  her  husband's  sight. 
To 


To  give  her  children  virtuous  abode.  ' 

"  My  virtuous  friend."  said  Mardoche.  as  they 

sat, 

*  The  birds  that  charm  us  most  do  warble  flat. 
Is  not  the  glorious  zxjrhtingale  quite  plain? 
And  yet  the  peacock  has  a  voice  profane, 
Although  he  weirs  a  robe  of  green  and  gold, 
Just  as  a  deacon  robed,  nigh  cure  old? 

XXXII 

"  Be  not  astonished  therefore,  good  cure, 
To  find  the  finest  creatures  do  not  pray. 


is  eminently  right. 


MARDOCHE  323 

XXX 

'  Will  you  the  less  commit  a  deep  outrage 
To  social  laws,  or  less  clean  life  enrage 
Even  if  the  secret  fellow  men  condone? 
How  will  it  look  before  th'  Eternal  throne? 
This  world  is  but  the  phantom  of  an  hour, 
With  all  eternity  man  fights  for  power." 
"  We'll  leave  this  subject,"  said  Mardoche,  "  I 

see 

Your  cranium  and  mine  own  do  not  agree. 
I  told  you  how  my,  mistress  is  encaged 
And  with  her  keeper  is  fore'er  engaged." 

XXXI 

"  And,"  said  the  priest,  "  'tis  eminently  right, 
That  she  should  never  leave  her  husband's  sight. 
To  care  for  household  duties,  worship  God, 
To  give  her  children  virtuous  abode." 
"  My  virtuous  friend,"  said  Mardoche,  as  they 

sat, 

'  The  birds  that  charm  us  most  do  warble  flat. 
Is  not  the  glorious  nightingale  quite  plain? 
And  yet  the  peacock  has  a  voice  profane, 
Although  he  wears  a  robe  of  green  and  gold, 
Just  as  a  deacon  robed,  nigh  cure  old? 

XXXII 

"  Be  not  astonished  therefore,  good  cure, 
To  find  the  finest  creatures  do  not  pray. 


324  MARDOCHE 

Woman,  the  finest  bird,  you  will  admit, 

Sings  false,  and  thereupon,  I  pray,  permit 

Me  finish  my  recital.    'Twas  but  yesterday 

I  came  near  ending  my  career  so  gay." 

"  Oh! "  said  the  older  man,  in  grievous  tone, 

"  I  would  to  God  your  sins  I  could  atone." 

"  In    families,"    said    Mardoche,    "  where    they 

thrive, 
Of  daughters,  I  have  found  some  four  or  five 

XXXIII 

:'  To  one  or  two  sons  only;  lacking  fraud 
Half  may  be  loved  without  offending  God." 
"  God!    My  dear  child!    Come,  let  us  be  sincere. 
Do  you  believe  in  Him? "     "I  think,  cure,  'tis 

clear 

Voltaire  believed  in  Him."     "  Then  why  of- 
fend? " 

"  But,"  said  the  junior,  "  I'll  my  story  end. 
I  do  adore  that  woman,  and  my  joy 
Is  seeing  her;  you  see,  I  must  employ 
Some  means  of  meeting  her.    I  count  on  you.'* 
"  On  me ! "  the  cure  cried.   "Your  heart's  untrue." 

XXXIV 

"  My  heart,  dear  reverend,  I've  lost  it,  see! 
If  by  mistake  it  were  returned  to  me, 
You'll  see  me  flee  from  it,  or  send  it  back, 
Like  pigeon  faithful  to  the  homeward  track. 


MARDOCHE  325 

Ah!  help  me  then;  I  need  your  timely  aid. 

To  save  me  in  this  hour  I  hope  you've  prayed." 

"  And  in  what  way? "  the  cure  said. 

Said  Mardoche,  "  Think  of  the  life  I've  lately  led, 

Trying  to  see  her.    What  I  need  at  once — 

A  furnished  chamber,  it  would  be  immense! 


XXXV 

"  But  the  boor  watches  her.    Now  here's  my  plan : 
That  you've  a  lovely  bedroom  I  can  scan. 
The  bed  has  sky-blue  curtains;  a  priest's  nest 
Is  not  suspected     ...     do  you  guess  the 

rest?  " 

"  Never,"  the  old  man  said.     "  So  little  time," 
Said  Mardoche,  "  have  I  to  commit  a  crime, 
I'll  kill  myself  right  here  within  this  moat." 
(He  drew  a  long  revolver  from  his  coat.) 
"  Lay  hand  upon  yourself,  your  life  to  end? 
God !  have  you  come  to  this?  "  inquired  his  friend. 

XXXVI 

"  Reverend,"  said  Mardoche,  "  I  am  tired  of  life. 
Shakespeare,  in  Hamlet,  says  we  keep  the  strife 
Because  one  knows  not  what  may  after  come. 
His  verses,  though,   would  strike  more   surely 

home, 

If  they  advised,  one  lives  for  brain's  unfit 
To  cope  with  bullet  driven  into  it, 


326  MARDOCHE 

To  burst  it  open;  jump  with  single  bound 
To  the  lone  dwelling  of  a  grassy  mound." 
"A   suicide!     Just   God!     'Twould    damn   in- 
deed." 

"  Our  brains,"  said  Mardoche,   "  are  not  quite 
agreed." 

XXXVII 

"  But  wait  at  least,  my  son,  until  to-morrow," 
The  cure  said.     '  Your  deed  would  give  me  sor- 
row. 
Nor  think  of  it:  a  woman  in  my  house!     My 

room! 

My  son  a  suicide!    His  soul  in  doom!  " 
"  Henry  the  Eighth,"  said  Mardoche,  "  did  di- 
vorce 

Seven  queens,  and  killed  two  cardinals,  in  course. 
Of  bishops,  he  had  slaughtered  some  nineteen, 
Priors  five  hundred  and  abbots  thirteen, 
Sixty-one  canons  and  archdeacons  too, 
Some  fourteen,  and  of  doctors  fifty  slew. 

XXXVIII 

"  I'll  kill  but  one.     Dear  reverend,  I  pray, 

Speak  and  decide  what  I  must  do  to-day!  " 

"  What  you  must  do,  I  fear  will  lead  to  hell! " 

"  Sir,"  replied  Mardoche,  "  I  can  not  tell 

How  true  your  answer,  but  no  fate  I'd  shun!  " 

( The  weapon  glittered  fiercely  in  the  sun. ) 


MARDOCHE  327 

"  I'm  willing,"  said  the  old  man,  "  this  your  role 
To  never  speak  of  it  to  living  soul. 
Think  of  the  scandal  were  it  known  from  hence, 
That  I  had  aided  your  incontinence." 


XXXIX 

Such  was  complete  the  conversation 

Which  Mardoche  had  with  Evrard  at  Meudon. 

(Evard,  the  cure's  true  authentic  name.) 

Uncle,  or  nephew,  which  the  guiltier  came? 

The  nephew  impious,  the  uncle  soft. 

One  pleads  for  heaven,  and  one  for  devils  oft. 

This  parallel  would  make  a  solemn  song, 

The  uncle  kind,  while  nephew  thought  of  wrong. 

Who  cares?    Enough.    And  knowing  this  abide 

Whate'er  the  motive,  Mardoche's  satisfied. 


XL 

And  more,  I  said  it  was  a  holiday. 
A  feast  at  Meudon  turns  the  head  astray. 
And  who  could  know  while  he  uneasy  lies 
And  on  the  ground  is  fixing  both  his  eyes, 
The  thing  he  sought?    Fact  is,  in  silence  now 
He  makes  his  worthy,  masterly,  low  bow. 
In  a  brown  study  then  he  somewhere  goes 
Head  down,  a  wolf  a-scenting  of  his  foes. 
Young  men  enamoured  go  with  drooping  head, 
And  less  by  feet  than  thought  are  they  besped. 


328  MARDOCHE 

XLI 

Enamoured  man  is  that,  and  does  not  ask 
If  rain  or  gravel  stays  him  in  his  task. 
We  laugh.    Good-luck  prevents  his  elbow  thrust, 
But  folly  decks  his  brow  with  crown  of  lust. 
His  shoulder  bears  the  purple;  on  his  path 
Are  flutes  and  torches  which  the  Roman  hath. 
And  such  was  he  whose  anxious,  worried  face 
Betrayed  the  madman,  or  the  poet's  grace; 
Sooner  could  you  see  crop  in  fields  about, 
A  door  without  a  lock,  cure  a  niece  without, 

XLII 

Than  man  without  a  mania,  and  in  love. 
Yet  as  he  walked  a  woman's  face  above 
All  shadowed  by  a  veil's  transparent  weave, 
Caused  him  distress  most  dreadful  to  conceive. 
What  ailed  him?    Who  this  beauty  under  veil? 
Perhaps  Rosine !    Adown  this  alley  pale, 
And  with  a  shawl,  how  could  he  recognize 
Her  gait  so  English,  and  her  heedless  grace? 
Not  alone  was  she.    A  man  of  sallow  face 
Attending  conjugal,  trots  easy  pace. 

XLIII 

However  that  may  be,  our  hero  chased 

The  veiled  beauty,  every  foot-print  traced. 

For  long  and  slowly  by  the  terrace  edge 

He  trailed  like  basset-hound  along  some  hedge. 


MARDOCHE  329 

Always  in  silence,  firm  and  deliberate 
Whether  to  go,  or  some  solution  wait. 
But  all  at  once  and  to  his  great  surprise, 
The  foe  'bout-faced,  then  quick  he  saw  arise 
A  crisis.     So  on  steady  foot  and  still 
He  set  his  collar  right  and  touched  his  frill. 

XLIV 

Ye  muses!     Since  John  Bull  with  eyes  askance 
Beheld  Beau  Brummel,  in  despite  of  France, 
Proscribe  white  waistcoats,  sad  example,  feel 
The  monstrous  pantaloon  about  his  heel; 
Down  to  the  times  which  our  compatriot 
Boldly  his  boots  half  up  the  leg  had  got, 
Set  finally  the  century  to  rights, 
Released  the  dandy's  calf  from  prisoning  tights. 
And  ever  twisting  up  a  fierce  mustache, 
A  gentleman  to  windward,  cracked  his  lash; 

XLV 

If  with  a  tender  dreaming  air  the  swell 

To  show  his  ring,  to  stroking  ringlets  fell, 

If  ever,  above  all,  aristocratic  muff 

Has  gently  smoothed  the  scarlet  downy  stuff, 

If  ever  like  to  any  star  of  night 

Beneath  the  veil  a  bright  eye  sparkled  bright, 

O  Muses  of  Helicon!    O  chaste  Pierides! 

Who  at  the  streaming  rock  your  thirst  appease, 


330  MARDOCHE 

Was  it  not  when  with  an  uplifted  cane 
Maradoche  skipped  by,  like  lightning  o'er  the 
plain ! 

XL  VI 

'Twas   but   a   glance,   and  though   past-master 

he, 

Our  spouse,  I'm  sure  could  almost  nothing  see. 
A  Turk  who  had  himself  to  smoking  set 
Could  have  no  time  to  mutter  Mahomet. 
The  lady  now  had  turned  her  head  aside, 
And  seeming  all  the  pleasure  to  deride, 
Heedless  of  people  and  his  handsome  kin, 
Mardoche  his  carriage  found,  and  hurried  in. 
"  To  Paris?"  said  the  groom,  closing  the  por- 
tiere. 
"  To  Paris;"  ah!  ridiculous  affair. 

XL  VII 

So  what  to  think  of  this  you  know  not  now, 
And,  reader,  want  at  once  to  knit  your  brow; 
You  have  not  guessed  already,  our  Mardoche 
Brought  from  Meudon  a  note  in  pocket-book. 
When  you  come  home  you'll  be  indeed  amazed 
To  see  his  nose  before  the  mirror  raised. 
To  hear  him  ask  for  soap  and  scold  the  maid 
And,  leaving  lackey,  of  the  storm  afraid, 
Dash  on  his  face,  as  if  a  flood  lustral, 
A  bottle  fresh  of  oil  of  Portugal. 


MARDOCHE  331 

XL  VIII 

O  Venus!    Torch  divine!    O  pirate  star! 
To  lovers  dear!  and  oh,  cravats  that  are 
Crumpled  by  lovers,  days  of  rendezvous! 
How  oft  a  lover  ties  those  knots  anew! 
How  milk  of  rose  and  amber  o'er  him  flows! 
What   waistcoats   in   his   room,    what   piles   of 

clothes, 

Littering  at  random,  thousand  times  essayed. 
Like  the  poor  wounded  trodden  and  dismayed ! 
And,  oh  what  pins — light  darts,  the  mephasis. 
Of  dull  Delille's  fourfold  periphrases! 


XLIX 

O  silent  words!    O  lakes!    O  wall  rock  made! 
Late  quitted  balcony!    O  escalade! 
Ye  masks  that  give  us  glimpses,  hardly  know, 
Two  holes  that  from  her  brow  to  soul  depths 

go; 

Ye  hoods  discreet,  and  oh!  ye  satin  cloaks, 
Which   amorous  hands  will  press  with   gentle 

strokes ! 

Love,  love  mysterious.     Thou  misery  sweet! 
And  lamp  of  silver,  light  so  pale,  so  neat, 
Who  sweeter  makest  the  night  than  milk,  or 

wine! 
Sustain  my  breath  to  end  this  verse  divine! 


332  MARDOCHE 


I  mean  to  sing  that  day  of  memory  long, 
When,   dinner  done,   before  black  night  grew 

strong, 

Our  hero,  nose  beneath  his  mantle  hid, 
Mounted  his  coach  one  hour  before  she  bid! 
And  he  was  gay ;  you  couldn't  see  a  bit, 
He  tried  to  count  the  posts  that  come  and  flit, 
And  when  at  last  the  tardy  foot-board  dropped, 
His  heart  the  faster  beat,  and  down  he  hopped! 
The  quarter,  all  of  it,  was  plunged  in  sleep, 
He  raised  the  knocker,  slowly  breathing  deep. 

LI 

Did  you  e'er  go,  and  in  mild  weather  too, 
Alone,  in  autumn  bound  for  rendezvous? 
It  is  too  early,  nothing  to  be  done 
To  kill,  the  saying  is,  the  time  in  fun, 
You  stop,  come  back,  and  for  the  sake  of  peace 
Go  in;  your  labors  on  the  cushion  cease. 
Or  on  the  edge  of  bed,  that  sacred  place 
Warm  scented  by  adored  head  and  face! 
You  listen,  wait  till  memory's  angel  voice 
Awakening    faintly    speaks,    "  She    comes,    re- 
joice! " 

LII 

At  altars  I  have  seen  our  Hymen  chaste 

Join  the  dry  hand  of  prude,  by  winters  graced, 


MARDOCHE  333 

With  roue's  unchaste  hand  of  twenty  years. 
At  Havre  I've  seen  her  eye  with  dying  leers, 
An  English  chit  of  melancholy  air, 
Surely  with  love's  romantic  silly  care 
Some  toper  at  his  punch,  and  just  then  she 
Had  soaked  what  brains  she  had  abominably. 
I've  seen  apprentices,  whom  dowagers  paid, 
And  Almaviva  hire  her  chambermaid. 


LIII 

Is  it  astounding  that  in  Paris  once 

Two  youthful  hearts  could  meet  and  love  for 

nonce? 

Stingy  of  pleasant  nights,  the  heavens  are, 
Of  pleasant  days  as  much!    The  soft  guitar 
May  blend  with  evening  breezes,  toss  your  curls, 
While    fiery    white    wine    through    your   being 

whirls, 

And  may  your  mistress  then  be  fair  to  view; 
If  not,  should  eye  of  yours  her  eye  pursue 
Oh,  then  your  heart  will  sink  and  you  will  stand 
That  instrument  slow  slipping  from  your  hand. 

LIV 

The  author  of  this  book  here  would  insist. 
Though  lady  reader  has  no  pretty  wrist. 
(He  hath  no  doubt)  shall  look  upon  her  hand, 
Recalling  once  the  last  of  lover  band, 


334  MARDOCHE 

And  bear  in  mind  that  Mardoche,  very  young, 
Was  amorous,  had  one  month  fasting  hung, 
His  room  was  drear,  and  never  larger  kiss, 
Or  kiss  more  ardent  set  than  that  and  this, 
From  lips  more  tender,  or  on  hands  more  white 
Than  those  that  Rosine's  sleeves  half  kept  from 
sight. 

LV 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  Rosina  warm. 
The  sudden  opening  door  disclosed  her  form. 
I  know  not  whether  our  young  friend  Mardoche 
Esteemed  his  conquest  thing  without  reproach. 
He  took  his  profit.     Tablecloth  and  tea, 
Biscuits,  the  fire  will  flame  up  cheerfully. 
It  rained  in  torrents.    Table's  nice  for  two! 
A  woman,  supper,  now  may  demon  crew 
Come  take  me  were  I  ever  willing  led 
To  ask  for  better  next  my  evening  bed. 

LVI 

Meantime  take  notice  now  that  our  Rosine 
Was  blond,  the  eye  was  black,  the  leg  cut  clean ; 
Except  the  feet  which  seemed  a  bit  too  plain, 
She  joined  the  body's  charm  to  wit  and  brain. 
It  seems  then  simple,  easy  to  believe 
Her  faithful  spouse,  although  no  man  to  grieve, 
Desired  to  watch  her,  was  perchance  forewarned 
Of  things  clandestine  and  that  might  be  mourned. 


MARDOCHE  335 

Mardoche  and  she  in  fact,  thought  not  of  him, 
When  as  at  Peter's  Feast,  he  bawled  with  vim: 


LVII 

"Unlock  this  door!"     "Pechero!"  quoth  the 

dame, 
"  I'm  lost,  Mardoche,  where  shall  I  hide?  "    Her 

flame 

Looked  for  a  well,  afraid  to  compromise 
His  queen,  queen  of  his  heart.    He  rushed  to  rise 
And  find  a  window.    Excellent  enterprise! 
No  finer  luck!    But,  oh,  he  sprained  his  foot. 
O  fate  bizarre!    O  fortune's  fickle  root! 
O  hapless  lover!    Lapless  loved  to  boot! 
After  this  fatal  blow,  how  will  you  end, 
And  whither  does  this  tragic  story  tend? 

LVIII 

At  all  times  spouses,  great  to  spoil  the  plot, 
By  eating  lover's  supper,  cut  the  knot. 
That  you  may  see  since  Master  Gil  Bias'  time, 
To  young  Crebillon  and  Faublas  sublime. 
But  our  young  Dijonnais  in  deep  chagrin 
Pronounced  the  thing  untimely;  and  Rosine, 
How  did  she  act?    She  had  the  sorry  look 
Worn  by  Poll  Parrot  when  he  quickly  took 
A  bean  they  gave  him,  mischieviously  neat, 
And  wrapped  in  blotting-paper,  nice  sweet  meat. 


336  MARDOCHE 

LIX 

She  takes  with  care  the  envelope,  unwraps, 
And  pulling  she  suspects  a  treat,  but  claps 
Her  eye  upon  the  end,  that  mocking  cheat, 
Then  stands  in  rage  and  pouting  at  defeat. 
The    husband    says:    "Madame,    the    convent 

waits!" 

The  convent!    Vengeance  of  delusive  fates! 
Filled  was  the  chalice,  fate  commands,  "  Now 

drink!" 

And  what  the  answer  of  ma  belle?    That  link 
Of  history  is  gone.     Mardoche?     Just  for  a 

change 
In   love,    he    spends    six   months    in    countries 

strange. 
SEPTEMBER,  1829. 


CONTENTS 

MM 

To  THE  READER 1 

To  MADAME  B . 3 

To   JUNGFRAU 4 

VENICE 5 

To  ULRIC  GUTTINGER 8 

SONNET 9 

BALLAD  TO  THE  MOON 10 

To  MADAME  MENISSIER 16 

To  PEPA 18 

THE  ANDALUSIAN 20 

SONG 22 

To  LAURA 23 

To  MY  FRIEND  ALFRED  T 25 

To  MY  FRIEND  B 27 

To  JULIA 29 

MADAME  LA  MARQUISE 81 

To  JUANA 34 

337 


338  CONTENTS 


PA«C 


OCTAVE 36 

A  MORNING  SERENADE 40 

MADRID       »    '.     .     , 42 

SUSON 44 

SECRET  THOUGHTS  OF  RAPHAEL 56 

NAMOUNA 62 

DON  PAEZ  ....     .      ." 106 

CHESTNUTS  FROM  THE  FIRE 126 

To  THE  READER 168 

OF  WHAT  YOUNG  MAIDENS  DREAM 169 

THE  CUP  AND  THE  LIP 205 

STANZAS 275 

THE  WILLOW 277 

MARDOCHE 310 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

To  the  couch  of  her  lover Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"Welcome,  my  beloved" 123 

"  Mount  the  horse  and  come  to  supper  with  me "  228 
"And,"  said  the  priest,  "it  is  eminently  right"  .   323 


r 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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1 6  1990 


ID-tfRC 


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